boh^ 


zrtrf. 


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THE 

CONFESSIONS    OF    A    CARICATURIST 


MY    CARICATURE   OF   MR.    GLADSTONE. 


THE 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A 
CARICATURIST 


HARRY     FURNISS 


ILL U  STRA TED 


VOLUME     I 


NEW  YORK   AND    LONDON: 

HARPER   &   BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS. 

1902. 


i' 


V 


BRADBURY,    AGNEW,    &   CO.    LD.,    PRINTERS 
LONDON  AND  TONBRIDOE. 


[AH  7-iiihts  reserved.'] 


PKEFACE. 


If,  in  these  volumes,  I  have  made  some  joke  at  a  friend's 
expense,  let  that  friend  take  it  in  the  spirit  intended,  and — I 
apologise  beforehand. 

In  America  apology  in  journalism  is  unknown.  The  excep- 
tion is  the  well-known  story  of  the  man  whose  death  was  pub- 
lished in  the  obituary  column.  He  rushed  into  the  office  of 
the  paper  and  cried  out  to  the  editor  : 

"  Look  here,  sur,  what  do  you  mean  by  this  ?  You  have 
published  two  columns  and  a  half  of  my  obituary,  and  here  I 
am  as  large  as  life  !  " 

The  editor  looked  up  and  coolly  said,  "  Sur,  I  am  vury  sorry, 
I  reckon  there  is  a  mistake  some  place,  but  it  kean't  be  helped. 
You  are  killed  by  the  Jersey  Eagle,  you  are  to  the  world 
buried.  We  nevur  correct  anything,  and  we  nevur  apologise  in 
Amurrican  papers." 

"  That  won't  do  for  me,  sur.  My  wife's  in  tears ;  my  friends 
are  laughing  at  me ;  my  business  will  be  ruined, — you  must 
apologise." 

"  No,  si — ree,  an  Amurrican  editor  nevur  apologises." 

"Well,  sur,  I'll  take  the  law  on  you  right  away.  I'm  off  to 
my  attorney." 

"Wait  one  minute,  sur — ^just  one  minute.  You  are  a 
re-nowned  and  popular  citizen  :  the  Jersey  Eagle  has  killed  you 


viii  PREFACE. 

— for  that  I  am  vury,  vury  sorry,  and  to  show  you  my  respect 
I  will  to-morrow  find  room  for  you — in  the  births  column." 

Now  do  not  let  any  editor  imagine  these  pages  are  my 
professional  obituary, — my  autobiography.  If  by  mistake  he 
does,  then  let  him  place  me  immediately  in  their  births 
column.  I  am  in  my  forties,  and  there  is  quite  time  for  me  to 
prepare  and  publish  two  more  volumes  of  my  "  Confessions  " 
from  my  first  to  my  second  birth,  and  many  other  things,  before 
I  am  fifty. 

London,  1901. 


[The  Author  begs  to  acknowledge  his  indebtedness  to  the  Proprietors  and  the  Editor 
of  Punch,  the  Proprietors  of  the  Magaziiie  of  Art,  the  Gmp/iio,  the  Illustrated  London 
jVcws,  English  Illustrated  Magazbw,  Cornhill  Magazine,  Harper's  Magazine,  Westminster 
Gazette,  St.  James'  Gazette,  the  British  Weekly  and  the  Sporting  Times  for  their  kindness 
in  allowing  him  to  reproduce  extracts  and  pictures  in  these  Tolumes.] 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CONFESSIONS   OF  MY   CHILDHOOD — AND   AFTER. 

Introductory — Birtli  and  Parentage  —  The  Cause  of  my  remaining  a  Caricaturist — - 
The  Schoolboys'  Punch — Infant  Prodigies — As  a  Student — I  Start  in  Life — 
Zoz/mMs— The" Sullivan  Brothers— Pigott— The  Forger— The  Irish  "Pathriot" 
— ^Wood  Engraving — Tom  Taylor — The  Wild  West — Judy — Behind  the  Scenes— 
Titiens — My  First  and  Last  Appearance  in  a  Play — My  Journey  to  London— 
My  Companion — A  Coincidence.         .......  pp.  1 — 29 

CHAPTER  n. 

BOHEMIAN   CONFESSIONS. 

I  arrive  in  London — A  Rogue  and  Vagabond — Two  Ladies — Letters  of  Introduction 
— Bohemia — A  Distinguished  Member — My  Double — A  Rara  Avis — The  Duke 
of  Broadacres — The  Savages — A  Souvenir — Portraits  of  the  Past — J.  L.  Toole — 
Art  and  Artists — Sir  Spencer  Wells — John  Pettie— Milton's  Garden. 

pp.  30—53 

CHAPTER  III. 

MY  CONFESSIONS   AS  A   SPECIAL   ARTIST. 

The  Light  Brigade — Miss  Thompson  (Lady  Butler) — Slumming — The  Boat  Race — 
Realism — -A  Phantasmagoria — Orlando  and  the  Caitiff — Fancy  Dress  Balls — 
Lewis  Wingfield — Cinderella — A  Model — All  Night  Sitting — An  Impromptu 
Easel—"  Where  there's  a  Will  there's  a  Way  " — The  American  Sunday  Papers 
— I  am  Deaf — The  Grill — The  World's  Fair — Exaggeration — Personally  Con- 
ducted—The Charnel  House — 10,  Downing  Street — I  attend  a  Cabinet  Council 
— An  Illustration  by  Mr.  Labouchere — The  Great  Lincolnshire  Trial — Praying 
without  Prejudice pp.  o4 — 87 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN   ILLUSTRATOR — A   SERIOUS   CHAPTER. 

Drawing — "  Hierogh^ihics  " — Clerical  Portraiture — A  Commission  from  General 
Booth— In  Search  of  Truth — Sir  Walter  Besanfc — James  Payn — Why  Theodore 
Hook  was  Melancholy — ^"  Off  with  his  Head" — ^Reformers'  Tree — Happy 
Thoughts — Christmas  Story — ^Lewis  Carroll— The  Rev.  Charles  Lutwidge 
Dodgson — Sir  John  Tenniel— The  Challenge — Seven  Years'  Labour — A  Puzzle 
MS. — Dodgson  on  Dress — Carroll  on  Drawing — Sylvie  and  Bruno — A  Compo- 
site Picture^My  Real  Models — I  am  very  Eccentric — My  "Romps" — A 
Letter  from  du  Maurier^Caldecott — Tableaux — Fine  Feathers — Models — Fred 
Barnard — The  Haystack — A  Wicket  Keeper — A  Fair  Sitter — Neighbours — 
The  Post  Office  Jumble — Puzzling  the  Postmen — Writing  Backwards — A 
Coincidence pp.  88 — 130 


X  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTEE  V. 

A   CHAT   BETWEEN   MY  PEN  AND   PENCIL. 

What  is Ciuicaturo  ? — Interviewing — Catching  Caricatures — Pellegrini — The  "  Ha  ! 
Ha !  " — Black  and  "White  v.  Paint — How  to  make  a  Caricature — M.P.'s — My 
System — Mr.  Labouchere's  Attitude — Do  the  Subjects  Object? — Colour  in 
Caricature—  Caught  I — A  Pocket  Caricature— The  Danger  of  the  Shirt-cuff — 
The  Danger  of  a  Marble  Table — Quick  Change — Advice  to  those  about  to 
Caricatiue pp.  131 — 153 

CHAPTER  VI. 

PARLIAMENTARY   CONFESSIONS. 

Gladstone  and  Disraeli — A  Contrast — An  unauthenticated  Incident — Lord  Beacons- 
field's  last  Visit  to  the  House  of  Commons — Mj^  Serious  Sketch — Historical — 
Mr.  Gladstone — His  Portraits — What  he  thought  of  the  Artists — Sir  J.  E.  Millais 
— Frank  HoU — The  Desjiatch  Boxes — Impressions — DisraeH — Dan  O'Connell — 
Procedure — American  Wit — Toys — Wine — Pressure— Sandwich  Soiree— ^The 
G.O.M.  dines  with  "Toby,  M.P."— Walking— Quivering— My  Desk— An  Inter- 
view— Political  Caricaturists — Signature  in  Sycamore — Scenes  in  the  Commons 
— Joseph  Gillis  Biggar — My  Double — Scenes — Divisions— Puck — Sir  R.  Temple 
— Charles  Stewart  JParnell — A  Study — Quick  Changes — His  Fall — Room  15 — 
The  last  Time  I  saw  him^Lord  Randolph  Churchill — His  Youth — His  Height 
— His  Fickleness — His  Hair— His  Health — His  Fall — Lord  Iddesleigh — Sir 
Stafford  and  Mr.  Gladstone — Bradlaugh — His  Youth — His  Parents — His 
Tactics — -His  Fight^ — His  Extinction — John  Bright — Jacob  Bright — Sir  Isaac 
Holden — Lord  Derby — A  Political  Prophecy — A  Lucky  Guess — My  Confession 
in  the  Times — The  Joke  that  Failed — Tlie  Seer  —Fair  Play — I  deny  being  a 
Conservative  —  I  am  Encouraged  —  Chaff  —  Reprimanded  —  Misprinted — 
Misunderstood pp.  154 — 214 

CHAPTER  Vir. 

"  PUNCH." 

Two  rnnrh  Editors — Punch'' s  Hump — My  First  Punch  Dinner— Charles  Keene — • 
"Robert" — W.  H.  Bradbury — du  Maurier — ^"Kiki" — A  Trip  to  the  Place  of 
his  Birth — He  Hates  Me — A  Practical  Joke — du  Maurier's  Strange  Model — 
No  Sportsman — Tea — Api^ollinaris — Mv  First  Contribution — My  Rec  >rd — 
Parliament— Press  Gallery  Official— I 'Feel  Small— The  "  Black  Beetle  "— 
Professor  Rogers^ — Sergeant-at-Arms'  Room — Styles  of  Work— Privileges — 
Dr.  Percy — I  Sit  in  the  Table — The  Villain  of  Art — The  New  Cabinet — -Criticism 
— Pvnrli's  Historical  Cartoons — Darwen  MacNeill— Scenes  in  the  Lobby — A 
Technical  Assault — John  Bui-ns's  "Invention" — John  Burns's  Promise — John 
Burns's  Insult — The  Lay  of  Swift  MacNeill — The  Truth — Sir  Frank  Lockwood 
— "  Grand  Cross"- — Lockwood's  Little  Sketch — Lockwood's  Little  Joke  in  the 
House — Lockwood's  I^ittle  Joke  at  Dinner — Lewis  Carroll  and  Punch — Glad- 
stone's Head — Sir  William's  Portrait — Ciphers — Reversion — Punch  at  Play — 
Three  J'uuch  Men  in  a  Boat — Squaring  up — Two  Pins  Club — Its  One  Joke — 
Its  One  Horse — Its  INIysteiy— Artistic  Duties — Lord  Russell — Furious  Riding 
—  Before  the  Beak — Burnand  and  I  in  the  Saddle — Caricaturing  Pictures  for 
Punch — Art  under  Glass — Arthur  Cecil — My  Other  Eye — The  Ridicule  that 
Kills — Red  Tape — Punch  in  Prison — I  make  a  Mess  of  it — AVaterproof — "I 
used  your  Soap  two  years  ago  " — Charles  Keene — Charles  Barber — Punches 
X(i\u-e—Pu)ic]i's  Wives pp.  215— 3U2 


HARRY   FURNISS'S    (EGYPTIAN   STYLE).      From  "  Pumh.''' 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAQE 

Fruniispiece 

.        1 

.       3 

5 

.       6 


My  Caricature  of  Mr.  Gladstone 

Initial  "  In."     Writing  my  Confessions.     A  Visitor's  Snapshot 

My  Mother 

My  Father         .......... 

Hari'v  Furniss,  aged  10 

A   Caricature,   made   when    a   Boy  (never  published).      Dublin   Exhibition. 

Portrait  of  Sir  A.  Guinness  (now  Lord  Iveagh)  in  centre    .         .         .         .11 
An  Early  Illustration  on  Wood  by  HaiTv  Furniss.      Partly  Engraved  by  him.     16 

Sketches  in  Galway 19 

"Judy,"  the  Gal  way  Dwaai 23 

Phelps,  the  first  Actor  I  saw 24 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.     Mr.  Harry  Fiu-niss.     From  an  Early  Sketch        .         .         .25 
Caricature  of  Myself,  drawn  when  I  first  arrived  in  London      .         .         .         ,30 

Age  20 35 

A  successful  "Make-Up"  ..........     36 

Two  Travellers 38 

The  Duke  of  "  Broadacres  "       ..........     40 

Savage  Club  House  Dinner.     From  a  Sketch  by  Herbert  Johnson    .         .         .41 

The  Earl  of  Dunraven  as  a  Savage 42 

"  Another  Gap  in  Our  Banks  "  .........     43 

"Jope"     ..............     43 

H.  J.  Bp-on 44 

A  Pi'e.sentation  ............     45 


Z/AT   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Savage  Club.     My  Design  for  the  Menu,  25th  Anniversary  Dinner 

"Savages" 

Letter  from  Sir  Spencer  Wells  . 

Distress  in  the  Black  Country  . 

At  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Boat  Race 

As  Special  at  the  Balaclava  Celebration 

Distress  in  the  North 

Eealism  I   . 

"  The  Caitiff  "  and  Orlando 

An  Invitation 

At  a  Fancy  Dress  Ball       ... 

Lewis  Wiugfield  as  a  Street  Nigger  Home  from  the  Derby 

"  The  Liberal  Candidate  " 

Sketches  at  the  Liverpool  Election  :  A  Ward  Meeting 
My  Easel.     Drawing  Mr.  Gladstone  at  a  Public  Meeting 
The  American  Sunday  Papers    .... 

Major  Handy     ....... 

The  World's  Pair,  Chicago.     A  "  Special's"  Visit 
"  On  dashed  the  Hoi'ses  in  their  wild  Career  "  . 

LHtial"A" 

The  Charnel-IIouse.     Chicago  World's  Pair 
Liitial  "  London  "      .... 
The  Bishop  of  Lincoln's  Trial    . 

Initial  "If" 

Majuba  Hill 

Canon  Liddon.     A  Sketch  from  Life. 
Letter  from  Sir  Walter  Besant  . 
The  Late  Sir  Walter  Besant 

The  "Jetty" 

Illustration  for  "  The  Talk  of  the  Town  " 
"  That's  just  what  I  have  done  I " 
Specimen  of  James  Pajni's  Writing  . 
The  Typical  Lovers  in  Illustrated  Novels 

Initial"!" 

Instructions  in  a  Letter  from  Lewis  Carroll 

Specimen  of  Lewis  Carroll's  Drawing  and  Writing 

Original  Sketch  by  Lewis  Carroll  o  his  Charming  Hero  and  Heroine 

liCwis  Carroll's  Note  to  me   or  a  Pathetic  Picture 

S}-lvie  and  Bruno.     Mv  Original  Drawing  for  Lewis  Carroll 

I  Go  Mad  :         .         .  "      . 

Prom  Lewis  Can-oil 

"  I  do  want  a  Wicket-keeper  I  " 

Portion  of  Letter  from  Lawrence,  age  9     . 

Ee<luction  fi-om  a  Design  for  my  "  Eomps  " 

Portion  of  a  Letter  from  George  du  Mam-ier 

A  Transformation     ..... 

"  Yours  always,  Barnard  " 

Barnard  and  the  Models    .... 

"  I  sit  for 'Ands,  Sir  "         .... 


PAGE 
47 

50 
51 
54 
55 
57 
59 
61 
62 
63 
65 
67 
68 
69 
71 
72 
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77 
79 
80 
83 


89 

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96 

98 

99 

100 

101 

103 

106 

107 

108 

110 

111 

112 

113 

114 

115 

117 

119 

119 

120 

121 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


xiu 


The  Grand  Old  Hand  and  the  Young  'Un 

My  Fighting  Double 

Specimen  of  Mr.  Linley  Sambourne's  Envelopes  to  me 

Cheque  for  5  jd.  jjassed  through  two  Banks  and  paid.    I  signed  it  hack 

it  was  cancelled  by  Clerk  backwards    . 
Sir  Henry  Irving  writes  his  Name  backwards 
Sir  Henry  Ii'ving's  Attempt 
Mr.  J.  L.  Toole's  first  Attempt . 
Mr.  J.  L.  Toole's  second  Attempt 
Autograph :  HaiTy  Furniss 

Initial  "If" 

The  Studio  of  a  Caricaturist 

Caricature  of  me  by  my  Daughter,  age  15 

A  serious  Portrait — from  Life    . 

Initial  "H" 

"Penguin"       ...... 

Mr.  Brown,  Ordinary  Attire.     Court  Dress 
Two  Portraits    ...... 

A  Caricature      ...... 

Not  a  Caricature         ..... 

The  Editor  of  Punch  sits  for  his  Portrait    . 

A  Model  unawarps  and  the  Eesult     . 

Sketch  on  a  Shirt-Cufl       . 

"Mundella"     . 

Mr.  Labouchere. 

The  M.P.     Eeal  and  Ideal. 

The  Photo.     As  he  really  is 

"  Dizzy"  (Beaconsfield)  and  Gladstone 

The  Inner  Lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons 

Explanation  to  Illustration  on  page  1 56    . 

Lord  Beaconsfield.     A  Sketch  from  Life    . 

The  last  Visit  of  Lord  Beaconsfield  to  the  House 

Mr.  Gladstone.     A.  Sketch  from  Life 

Mr.  Gladstone  ' '  under  his  Flow  of  Eloquence ' 

Mr.  Gladstone.     Conventional  Portrait 

Caricature  of  the  Holl  Portrait  . 

Note  of  Mr.  Gladstone  made  in  the  Press  Gallery  with  the 

Quill  Pen 

Invitation  to  a  "  Sandwich  Soiree  "   . 

Mr.  Gladstone  sits  on  the  Floor 

The  Fragment  of  Punch  Mr.  Gladstone  did  not 

The  Gladstone  Matchboj 

Mr.  Gladstone's  Collars 

Parnell 

To  Room  15 

Outside  Room  15 

Outside  my  Room 

"  The  G.O.M."  and  "  Randy  " 

Mr.  Louis  Jennin<?s  . 


wards,  and 


wrong  end  of  a 


PAQK 

122 
124 
125 

127 

128 

128 

128 

128 

129 

131 

132 

134 

135 

136 

139 

139 

140 

140 

140 

144 

145 

146 

147  • 

149 

150 

151 

154 

156 

157 

158 

161 

163 

165 

167 

169 

171 
173 
174 
175 
176 
178 
179 
182 
183 
185 
185 
186 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIOXS. 


Here  he  is 


Lord  Eandolph  and  Louis  JtMiniiipr.'^  . 
Lord  llandolph  Churchill  .... 
Behind  tho  Speaker's  Chair 

Initial  "S" 

Initial  "K" 

Bradlaiij^h  Triumphant.     From  "  I'laich  " 

Charles  Hradlau-h 

The  Meet  at  St.  Stephen.s .... 
Sir  George  Caniphell  .... 

Heraldic     Design     illustrating     ^[r.      Plunkett's     (now     Lord      Eathmore) 

Joke   .... 
Mr.  Fanner  Atkinson 
I  niu.st  Introduce  you  to  Lucy, 

Joseph  Gillis  Biggar 

Initial"!" 

The  House  of  Commons  from  Toby's  Private  Box 
The  Government  Bench — before  Home  Rule 
Reduction  of  one  of  my  Parliamentary  Pages  in  Punch 

Initial  "T" '       . 

Age  26,  when  I  first  worked  for  Fundi 

My  first  Meeting  with  the  Editor  of  Punch 

My  first  Invitation  from  Punch 

A  Letter  from  Charles  Keene,  objecting  to  an  Editor  interviewing  him 

"Robert" 

George  du  Manner     ..... 

Suggestion  by  du  Maurier  for  Punch  Cartoon 

Du  Maurier's  Souvenir  de  Fontainebleau.     From  "  Punch  ' 

Punch  Staff  returning  from  Paris 

Japanese  Style   ....... 

'•  Birch— His  Mark  " 

Chinese  Style.     From  a  Drawing  on  "Wood 
Familiar  Faces  ....... 

An  Official  in  the  Press  Gallery 

'■  He  spies  me"  ...... 

"  What  are  you  r  " 

"  Plowed  if  the  Country  wants  you" 
"  I  feel  smaller  I  "      . 

The  Black  Beetle 

The  Sergeant-at-AiTQs'  Room.  .... 

Capt.  Gosset,  late  Sergeant-at-Arms 

My  "  Childish  "  Style  in  Punch 

A  simple  Document    ...... 

I  Sketch  the  House 

Dr.  Percj'.     "  The  House  U}) '' 

Mr  Punch's  Puzzle-Headed  People.     ^Ir.  Goschen 

Mr.  Punch's  Piizzle-Headed  I'eople.     "All  Ilarcour 

The  New  Cabinet       .... 

Reduction  of   I'age  in  Punch,   sliowinji'  that   my   C 

case — published  too  large 


aricatures  were  —  in  this 


pAQi<: 
188 
189 
IsiO 
191 
193 
194 
195 
197 
199 

201 
202 
203 
204 
206 
208 
211 
214 
215 
216 
217 
218 
219 
220 
221 
224 
225 
227 
229 
231 
232 
234 
235 
236 
236 
238 
241 
242 
243 
244 
245 
246 
247 
250 
251 
252 
255 

258 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


XV 


PAGE 

Eeduction  from  the  Original  Drawing,  showing  that  I  gave  Instructions  for  the 

Caricature  to  be  "  reduced  as  usual  "  .......  259 

What  really  happened 261 

Dr.  Tanner 622 

Assault  oil  me  in  the  House.     What  the  Press  described 263 

John  Burns        .............  265 

Note  from  Sir  Frank  Lockwood,   after  reading  the   Bogus  Account  of   the 

"Assault" 266 

Letter  supposed  to  come  from  Lord  Cross.     (Lockwood's  Joke)         .         .         .  267 

Sir  F.  Lockwood 269 

Lewis  Carroll's  Suggestion,  and  my  sketch  of  it  in  Funch  ....  270 

Nature's  Puzzle  Portrait     .         .         . 271 

Initial  "  W" 272 

"  Three  Oarsmen  under  a  Tree  " 273 

Lord  Russell's  Acceptance  to  dine  with  me        .         .         .         .         .         .         .275 

"  It's  your  Turn  next " 277 

Letter  from  Sir  Frank  Lockwood       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .277 

Mr.  Linley  Sambouriie 278 

Portrait  of  me  as  a  Member  of  the  Two  Pins  Club,  by  Linley  Sambourne         .  279 
The  late  Lord  Russell,  the  President  of  the  Two  Pins  Club        .         .         .         .280 

"  Furious  Riding."     Sketch  by  F.  C.  Gould 282 

My  Portrait,  by  F.  C.  Burnand 285 

Mr.  Punch  "  doing  "  the  Picture  Shows    ........  286 

The  Picture  Shows.     Design  from  Funch  .         .         .         .         .         .         ,         .  288 

"  The  World-Renowned  and  Talented  Barnardo  Family  "...  .289 

The  Oreat  Baccarat  Case.     My  Sketch  in  Pencil  made  in  Court,  and  Congratu- 
latory Note  from  the  Editor  of  Fundi  .......  291 

Letter  from  Professor  Herkomer        .........  293 

A  Prisoner 294 

"  Good  Advertisement."     Original  Idea  as  sent  to  me       .....  297 

Ditto.     My  Drawing  of  it  in  Funch 297 

"  English  Wateri^roof  Ink  " 299 

I  sit  for  John  Brown  ...........  300 

A  Crib  by  an  American  Advertiser    .........  301 

Finis 302 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CAEICATUKIST. 


CHAPTER   I. 


CONFESSIONS   OF    MY   CHILDHOOD — AND    AFTER. 


Introductory — Birth    and    Parentage  —  The    Cause   of    my   remaining   a 

Caricaturist — The  Schoolboys'  Punch 

—  Infant    Prodigies — As    a    Student 

—  I  Start  in  Life  —  Zozimus — The 
Sulhvan  Brothers  —  Pigott  —  The 
Forger — The  Irish ' '  Pathriot '  '^Wood 
Engi-aving — Tom  Taylor — The  Wild 
West — Judy — Behind  the  Scenes — • 
Titiens — My  First  and  Last  Appear- 
ance in  a  Play  —  My  Journey 
to  London  —  My  Companion  —  A 
Coincidence. 

OFFERING  the  following  pages 
to  the  public,  I  should  like  it  to 
be  known  that  no  interviewer 
has  extracted  them  from  me  by  the  thumbscrew  of  p  morning 
call,  nor  have  they  been  wheedled  out  of  me  by  the  caresses  of 
those  iron-maidens  of  literature,  the  publishers.  For  the  most 
part  they  have  been  penned  in  odd  half-hours  as  I  sat  in  my 
easy-chair  in  the  solitude  of  my  studio,  surrounded  by  the  aroma 
of  the  post-prandial  cigarette. 

I  would  also  at  the  outset  warn  those  who  may  purchase  this 
work  in  the  expectation  of  finding  therein  the  revelations  of  a 
caricaturist's  Chamber  of  Horrors,  that  they  will  be  disappointed. 
Some  day  I  may  be  tempted  to  bring  forth  my  skeletons  from 
the  seclusion  of  their  cupboards  and  strip  my  mummies,  taking 

C. — VOL.  L  B 


2  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

eertaiii  familiar  figures  and  faces  to  pieces  and  exposing  not 
only  tlie  jewels  with  which  they  were  packed  away,  but  all 
those  spicy  secrets  too  which  are  so  relished  ]»y  scandal-loving 
readers. 

At  present,  however,  I  am  in  an  altogether  lighter  and  more 
genial  vein.  My  confessions  up  to  date  are  of  a  purely  personal 
character,  and  like  a  literary  Liliputian  I  am  placing  myself  in 
the  hand  of  that  colossal  Gulliver  the  Public. 

1  may,  it  is  true,  in  the  course  of  my  remarks  be  led  to 
retaliate  to  some  extent  upon  those  who  have  had  the  hardihood 
to  assert  that  all  caricaturists  ought,  in  the  interest  of  historical 
accuracy,  to  be  shipped  on  board  an  unseaw^rthy  craft  and  left 
in  the  middle  of  the  Channel,  for  the  crime  of  handing  down  to 
posterity  distorted  images  of  those  now  in  the  land  of  the  living. 
This  I  feel  bound  to  do  in  self-defence,  as  well  as  in  the  cause 
of  truth,  for  to  judge  by  the  biographical  sketches  of  myself 
which  continually  appear  and  reach  me  through  the  medium  of 
a  press-cutting  agency,  caricaturists  as  distorters  of  features  are 
not  so  proficient  as  authors  as  distorters  of  facts. 

I  think  it  best  therefore  to  begin  by  giving  as  briefly  as 
possil)le  an  authentic  outline  of  my  early  career. 

For  the  benefit  of  anyone  who  may  not  feel  particularly 
interested  in  such  details,  I  should  mention  that  the  narration 
of  this  plain  unvarnished  tale  extends  from  this  line  to  page  29. 

I  was  ])orn  in  Ireland,  in  the  town  of  Wexford,  on  March 
26th,  1854.  I  do  not,  however,  claim  to  be  an  Irishman.  My 
father  was  a  typical  Englishman,  hailing  from  Yorkshire,  and 
not  in  his  appearance  only,  but  in  his  tastes  and  sympathies,  he 
M'as  an  unmistakable  John  Bull.  By  profession  he  was  a  civil 
engineer,  and  he  migrated  to  Ireland  some  years  before  I  was 
l)orn,  having  been  invited  to  throw  some  light  upon  that 
"  benighted  counthry "  l)y  designing  and  superintending  the 
erection  of  gas  works  in  various  towns  and  cities. 

]\Iy  mother  was  Scotch.  j\[y  great-great-grandfather  was  a 
c;ij)taiii  ill  the  rretender's  army  at  Culloden,  and  had  a  son, 
Antrus,  who  settled  in  Aberdeen.  When  ^neas  MacKenzie, 
niv  oraiidfathci',  was  l)()ni,  his  family  moved  south  and  settled 


CONFESSIONS   OF  MY   CHILDHOOD— AND   AFTER. 


in  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  A  local  biographer  writes  of  liim  :  "  A 
man  who  by  dint  of  perseverance  and  self-denial  acquired  more 
learning  than  ninety-nine  in  a  hundred  ever  got  at  a  university — 
an  accomplished  and  most  trustworthy  writer.  The  real  founder 
of  the  Newcastle  Mechanics'  Institute,  and  tlic  leader  of  the 
group  of  Philosophical  Radicals  who  made  not  a  little  stir  in 
the  North  of  England  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  century." 
He  Avas  not  only  a  benevolent,  active 
member  of  society  and  an  ardent 
politician  (Joseph  Cowen  received 
his  earliest  impressions  from  him — 
and  never  forgot  his  indebtedness), 
but  the  able  historian  of  North- 
umberland, Durham,  and  of  New- 
castle itself,  a  town  in  which  he 
spent  his  life  and  his  energies.  If  I 
possess  any  hereditary  aptitude  for 
journalism,  it  is  to  him  I  owe  it  ; 
whilst  to  my  mother,  who  at  a 
time  when  miniature  painting  was 
fashionable,  cultivated  the  natural 
artistic  taste  with  much  success, 
I  am  directly  indebted  for  such 
artistic    faculties    as    are    innate 


.y^^^^ 


>y^^/7^^^^ 


in  me. 

My  family  moved  from  Wexford 
to  Dublin  when  I  was  ten.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  they  left  a 
good  impression.  In  Miss  Mary  Banim's  account  of  Ireland  I 
find  the  following  reference  to  these  aliens  in  Wexford,  which  I 
must  allow  my  egotism  to  transcribe  :  "  Many  are  the  kindly 
memories  that  remain  in  Wexford  of  this  warm-hearted,  ejifted 
family,  who  are  said  not  only  to  be  endowed  with  rare  talents, 
but,  better  still,  with  those  qualities  that  endear  people  to  those 
they  meet  in  daily  intercourse,"  The  flattering  adjectives  with 
wdiich  the  remarks  about  myself  are  sandwiched  prevent  my 
modest  nature  from  quoting  any  more.  However,  ns  one  docs 
not  remember  much  of  that  period  of  their  life  before  they  reach 

B  2 


4  COXFESSIOXS  OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

their  teens  I  ueed  not  apologise  for  quoting  from  the  same  work 
this  reference  to  me  at  that  age  : 

"  ( )ne  who  was  his  pkiymate — he  is  still  a  young  man — 
describes  Mr.  Furniss  as  very  sm;tll  of  stature,  full  of  animation 
and  merriment,  constantly  amusing  himself  and  his  friends  with 
clev^er  [!]  reproductions  of  each  humorous  character  or  scene  that 
met  his  eye  in  the  ever-fruitful  gallery  of  living  art — gay, 
grotesque,  pathetic,  even  beautiful — that  the  streets  and  outlets 
of  sucli  a  town  as  Wexford  present  to  a  quick  eye  and  a  ready 
pencil." 

I  can  appreciate  the  fact  that  at  that  early  age  I  had  an  eye 
for  the  "pathetic,  and  even  beautiful,"  but, \alas !  I  have  been 
misunderstood  from  the  day  of  my  birth.  I  used  to  sit  and 
study  the  heavens  before  I  could  walk,  and  my  nurse,  a  wise 
and  shrewd  woman,  predicted  that  I  should  become  a  great 
astronomer ;  but  instead  of  the  works  of  Herschel  being  put 
into  my  hands,  I  was  satiated  with  the  vilest  comic  toy  books, 
and  deluged  with  the  frivolous  nursery  literature  now  happily  a 
thing  of  the  past.  At  odd  times  my  old  leaning  towards  serious 
reflection  and  ambition  for  high  art  come  over  me,  but  there  is 
a  fatality  which  dogs  my  footsteps  and  always  at  the  critical 
moment  ruins  my  hopes. 

It  is  indeed  strange  how  slight  an  incident  may  alter  the 
whole  course  of  one's  life,  as  will  be  seen  from  the  folio  win  o- 
instance,  which  I  insert  here  although  it  took  place  some  years 
after  the  period  to  which  I  am  now  alluding. 

The  scene  was  Antwerp,  to  which  I  was  paying  my  first  visit, 
and  where  I  was,  like  all  artists,  veiy  much  impressed  and 
delighted  with  the  cathedral  of  the  quaint  old  place.  The  after- 
noon was  merging  into  evening  as  I  entered  the  sacred  building, 
an<l  the  broad  amber  vAy?,  of  the  setting  sun  glowed  amid  the 
stately  pillars  and  deepened  the  shadowy  glamour  of  the  solemn 
aisles.  As  I  gazed  on  the  scene  of  grandeur  I  felt  profoundlv 
moved  bv  the  ])ictures(|ue  effect,  aurl  the  followino;  mornino- 
discovered  me  liard  at  work  u[)0u  a  most  elaborate  study  of  the 
beautiful  carved  figures  upon  tlie  ccmfessional  boxes.  I  liad 
just  laid  out   my  palette  })reparat()ry  to  })ainting  that  picture 


CONFESSIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD— AND   AFTER. 


which  would  of  course  make  my  name  and  fortune,  when  a 
hoarse  and  terribly  British  guffaw  at  my  elbow  startled  me,  and 
turning  round  I  encountered  some  acquaintances  to  whom  the 
scene  seemed  to  afford  considerable  amusement.  One  of  them 
was  good  enough  to  remark  that  to  have  come  all  the  way  to 
Antwerp  to  find  a  caricaturist  painting  the  confessional  boxes 
in  the  cathedral  was  certainly  the  funniest  thing  he  had  ever 
heard  of,  and  thereupon  insisted  upon  dragging  me  off  to  dine 
with  him,  a  proposition  to  which 
I  immediately  assented,  feeling  far 
more  foolish  than  I  could  possibly 
have  looked.  I  may  add  that  as 
the  sun  that  evening  dipped  beneath 
the  western  horizon,  so  vanished  the 
visions  of  high  art  by  which  I  had 
been  inspired,  and  thus  it  is  that 
Michael  Angelo  Vandyck  Correggio 
Kaphael  Furniss  lies  buried  in  Ant- 
werp Cathedral.  Strangely  enough  I 
came  across  the  following  paragraph 
some  years  afterwards :  "The  guides 
of  Antwerp  Cathedral  point  out  a 
grotesque  in  the  wood  carving  of 
the  choir  which  resembles  almost 
exactly  the  head  of  Mr.  Gladstone, 
as  depicted  by   Harry   Furniss." 

My  earliest  recollections  are  altogether  too  modern  to  be  of 
much  interest.  Crimean  heroes  were  veterans  when  they,  as 
guests  at  my  father's  table,  fought  their  battles  o'er  again.  The 
Great  Eastern  steamship  was  quite  an  old  white  elephant  of  the 
sea  when  I,  held  up  in  my  nurse's  arms,  saw  Brunei's  blunder 
pass  Creenore  Point.  I  was  hardly  eligible  for  "  Etons  "  w^hen 
our  present  King  was  married.  When  first  taken  to  church  I 
was  most  interested,  as  standing  on  tiptoe  on  the  seat  in  our 
square  family  ]3ew,  and  peering  into  the  next  pew,  I  saw  a 
young  governess,  at  that  moment  the  most  talked-of  woman  in 
Great  Britain,  the  niece  of  the  notorious  poisoner  Palmer.     She 


MY    FATHER. 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


luul  just  rotunied  from  the  condemned  cell,  having  made  that 
scoundrel  confess  his  crime,  and  there  was  more  pleasure  in  the 
sifjht  than  in  listenino:  to  the  good  old  Rector  Els-ee  who  had 
christened  me,  or  in  seeing  his  famous  daughter  the  poetess 
"  Speranza,"  otherwise  known  as  Lady  Wilde, 

In  the  newspaper  shop  windows — always  an  attraction  to  me — 
the  coloured  })ortrait  of  Garibaldi  was  Hy-hlown,  the  pictures  of 
the  great  fight  between  Sayers  and  Heenan  were  illustrations  of 

ancient  history,  and  in  the 
year  I  was  born  Punch 
published  his  twenty-sixth 
volume.  \ 

Leaving  Wexford  before 
the  railway  there  was 
opened,  my  parents  removed 
to  the  metropolis  of  Ireland, 
and  I  went  to  school  in 
Dublin  at  the  age  of  twelve. 
It  was  at  the  Wesleyan  Con- 
nexional  School,  now  known 
as  the  Wesleyan  College,  St. 
Stephen's  Green,  that  I 
struggled  through  my  first 
[)ages  of  Csesar  and  stum- 
bled over  the  "  pons 
asinorum,"  and  here  I  must 
mention  that  although  the 
AVesleyan  College  bears  the  name  of  the  great  religious  reformer, 
a  considerable  number  of  the  boys  who  studied  there — myself 
included — were  in  no  way  connected  with  the  Wesleyan  body. 
I  merely  say  this  because  I  have  seen  it  stated  more  than  once 
that  I  am  a  Wesleyan,  and  as  this  little  sketch  professes  to  be  an 
authentic  account  of  myself,  I  wish  it  to  be  correct,  however  trivial 
my  remarks  may  seem  to  tlie  general  reader.  It  is  in  the  same 
spirit  that  I  have  disclaimed  the  honour  of  being  an  Irishman. 

Once  upon  a  time,  when  I  was  a  very  little  boy,  I  remember 
being  very  much  im})re^sed  by  a  heading  in  my  copybook  which 


HARRY   FURNIS3,   AGED    lO. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD— AXD   AFTER.  7 

ran  :  "  He  who  can  learn  to  write,  can  learn  to  draw."  Now 
this  was  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse,  so  far  as  my 
experience  had  gone,  for  I  could  most  certainly  draw  before  I 
could  write,  and  had  not  only  become  an  editor  long  before 
I  was  fit  to  be  a  contributor,  but  was  also  a  publisher  before  I 
had  even  seen  a  printing  press.  In  fact,  I  was  but  a  little 
urchin  in  knickerbockers  when  I  brought  out  a  j)eriodical — in 
MS.  it  is  true — of  which  the  ambitious  title  was  "The  School- 
boys' Punch  J'  The  ingenuous  simplicity  with  which  I  am 
universally  credited  by  all  who  know  me  now  had  not  then, 
I  fancy,  obtained  complete  possession  of  me.  I  must  have  been 
artful,  designing,  diplomatic,  almost  Machiavellian  ;  for  anxious 
to  curry  favour  with  the  head  master  of  my  school,  I  resolved 
to  use  the  columns  of  "  The  Schooll^oys'  Punch  "  not  so  much 
in  the  interest  of  the  schoolboy  world  as  to  attract  the  head 
master's  favourable  notice  to  the  editor. 

Accordingly,  the  first  cartoon  I  drew  for  the  paper  was 
specially  designed  with  this  purpose  in  view,  and  I  need  scarcely 
say  it  was  highly  complimentary  to  the  head  master.  He  was 
represented  in  a  Poole-made  suit  of  perfectly  fitting  evening 
dress,  and  the  trousers,  I  remember,  were  particularly  free  from 
the  slightest  wrinkle,  and  must  have  been  extremely  uncom- 
fortable to  the  wearer.  This  tailorish  impossibility  was  matched 
by  the  tiny  patent  boots  which  encased  the  great  man's  small 
and  exquisitely  moulded  feet.  I  furnished  him  with  a  pair  of 
dollish  light  eyes,  with  long  eyelashes  carefully  drawn  in,  and 
as  a  masterstroke  threw  in  the  most  taper-shaped  waist. 

The  subject  of  the  picture,  I  flattered  myself,  was  selected 
with  no  little  cleverness  and  originality.  A  celebrated  conjuror 
who  had  recently  exposed  the  frauds  of  the  Davenport  Brothers 
was  at  the  moment  creating  a  sensation  in  the  town  where  the 
school  was  situated,  and  from  that  incident  I  determined  to 
draw  my  inspiration.  The  magnitude  of  the  design  and  the 
importance  of  the  occasion  seemed  to  demand  a  double-paged 
cartoon.  On  one  side  I  depicted  a  hopelessly  scared  little 
schoolboy,  not  unlike  myself  at  the  time,  tightly  corded  in  a 
cabinet,  which  represented  the  school,  with  trailing  Latin  roots. 


8  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

heavy  Greek  exercises,  and  chains  of  figures.  The  door,  supposed 
to  be  closed  on  this  distressing  but  necessary  situation,  is  observed 
in  the  opposite  cartoon  to  be  majestically  thrown  open  by  the 
beaming  and  consciously  successful  head  master,  in  order  to 
allow  a  young  college  student,  the  pink  of  scholastic  perfection, 
to  step  out,  loaded  with  learning  and  academical  honours. 

"  Great  events  from  little  causes  spring !  " — great,  at  least,  to 
me.  So  well  was  ray  juvenile  effort  received,  that  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  it  decided  my  future  career.  Had  my  subtle 
flattery  taken  the  shape  of  a  written  panegyric  upon  the  head 
master  in  lieu  of  a  cartoon,  it  is  possible  that  I  might,  had  I 
met  with  equal  success,  have  devoted  myself  to  journalism  and 
literature ;  but  from  that  day  forward  I  clung  to  the  pencil,  and 
in  a  few  years  was  regularly  contributing  "  cartoons  "  to  public 
journals,  and  practising  the  profession  I  have  ever  since  pursued. 

Drawing,  in  fact,  seemed  to  come  to  me  naturally  and 
intuitively.  This  was  well  for  me,  for  small  indeed  was  the 
instruction  I  received.  I  recollect  that  a  German  governess, 
who  professed,  among  other  things,  to  teach  drawing,  undertook 
to  cultivate  my  genius ;  but  I  derived  little  benefit  from  her 
unique  system,  as  it  consisted  in  placing  over  the  paper  the 
drawing  to  be  copied,  and  pricking  the  leading  points  with  a 
pin,  after  which,  the  copy  being  removed,  the  lines  were  drawn 
from  one  point  to  another.  The  copies  were  of  course  soon 
perforated  beyond  recognition,  and,  although  I  warmly  protested 
against  this  sacrilege  of  art,  she  explained  that  it  was  by  that 
system  that  Albert  Diirer  had  been  taught.  This,  of  course, 
accounts  for  our  having  infant  prodigies  in  art,  as  well  as  music 
and  the  drama.  The  rapidity  with  which  Master  Hoffmann 
was  followed  by  infantile  Lizsts  and  little  Otto  Hegner  as  soon 
as  it  became  ap^jarent  that  tliere  was  a  demand  for  such 
phenomena,  seems  to  indicate  that  in  music  at  all  events  supply 
will  follow  demand  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  if  the  infant 
artist  can  only  be  "crammed"  in  dauljing  on  canvas  as  youthful 
musicians  are  in  playing  on  tlie  piano,  then  perhaps  a  new 
sensation  is  in  stove  for  the  artistic  world,  and  we  shall  see 
l>abies   executing  re[)licas   of  the  old   masters,   and    the   Infant 


CONFESSIONS    OF  MY   CHILDHOOD— AND    AFTER.  9 

Slapdash  painter  painting  the  portraits  of  Society  beauties. 
As  a  welcome  relief  to  Chopin's  Nocturne  in  D  flat,  played 
by  Baby  Hegner  at  St.  James's  Hall,  we  shall  step  across  to 
Bond  Street  and  behold  "  Le  Petit  Americain  "  dashing  off  his 
"  Nocturne "  on  canvas. .  I  sometimes  wonder  if  I  miofht  have 
been  made  such  an  infant  art  prodigy,  but  when  I  was  a  lad 
public  taste  was  not  in  its  second  childhood  in  matters  of  art 
patronage,  nor  was  the  forcing  of  children  practised  in  the  same 
manner  as  it  is  nowadays. 

Naturally  enough  I  did  not  altogether  escape  the  thraldom 
of  the  drawing-master,  and  as  years  went  on  I  made  a  really 
serious  effort  to  study  at  an  art  school  under  the  Kensington 
system,  which  I  must  confess  I  believe  to  be.  positively  pre- 
judicial to  a  young  artist  possessing  imagination  and  originality. 
The  late  Lord  Beaconsfield  made  one  of  his  characters  in"Lothair" 
declare  that  "  critics  are  those  who  have  failed  in  literature  and 
art."  Whether  this  is  true  as  to  the  art  critics,  or  that  the 
dramatic  critic  is  generally  a  disappointed  playwright,  it  must 
in  truth  be  said  that  drawing-masters  are  nearly  always  those 
who  have  failed  in  art.  I  can  remember  one  gentleman  who 
was  the  especial  terror  of  my  youth.  I  can  see  him  now  going 
his  rounds  along  the  chilly  corridor,  where,  perhaps,  one  had 
been  placed  to  draw  something  "  from  the  flat."  After  years 
and  years  of  practice  at  this  rubl^ish,  he  would  halt  beside  you, 
look  at  your  work  in  a  perfunctory  manner,  and  with  a  dexterity 
which  appalled  you  until  you  reflected  that  he  had  been  doing 
the  same  thing  exactly,  and  nothing  else,  for  perhaps  a  decade, 
he  would  draw  in  a  section  of  a  leaf,  and  if,  as  in  my  case,  you 
happened  to  have  a  pretty  sister  attending  the  ladies'  class  in 
the  school,  he  would  add  leaf  to  leaf  until  your  whole  paper 
was  covered  with  his  mechanical  handiwork,  in  order  to  have 
a  little  extra  conversation  with  you,  although,  I  need  scarcely 
add,  it  was  not  exclusively  confined  to  the  subject  of  art. 

This  sort  of  thins^  was  called  "  instruction  in  freehand  draw- 
ing,"  and  had  to  be  endured  and  persisted  in  for  months  and 
months.  Freehand  !  Shade  of  Apelles  !  What  is  there  free 
in  squinting  and  measuring,  and  feebly  touching  in  and  fiercely 


10  (JOXFESSIOXS  OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

rul)1)ino-  out  a  collection  of  straggling  mechanical  pencil  lines 
on  a  {)iec(!  of  paper  pinned  on  to  a  hard  ])oard,  which  after 
a  few  weeks  becomes  nothing  Imt  a  confused  jumble  of  finger- 
marks ? 

Had  I  an  Art  School  I  would  treat  my  students  according  to 
their  individual  requirements,  just  as  a  doctor  treats  his  patients. 
I  am  led  here  to  repeat  what  I  have  already  observed  in  one  of 
my  lectures,  that  for  the  young  the  pill  of  knowledge  should 
be  silver-coated,  and  that  while  they  are  being  instructed  they 
should  also  be  amused.  In  other  words,  interest  your  pupils, 
do  not  dejjress  them.  Giotto  did  not  begin  by  rigidly  elaborat- 
ing a  drawing  of  the  crook  of  his  shepherd's  staff  for  weeks 
together ;  his  drawings  upon  the  sand  and  upon  the  flat  stones 
wliich  he  found  on  the  hillsides  are  said  to  have  been  of  the 
picturescpie  sheep  he  tended,  and  all  the  interesting  and  fasci- 
nating objects  that  met  his  eye.  Then,  when  his  hand  had 
gained  practice,  he  was  able  to  draw  that  perfect  circle  which  he 
sent  to  the  Pope  as  a  proof  of  his  command  of  hand.  But  the 
truth  is  that  we  begin  at  the  wrong  end,  and  try  to  make  our 
boys  draw  a  perfect  circle  before  they  are  in  love  with  drawing 
at  all.  For  my  part,  I  had  to  endure  some  weeks  of  weary 
struggling  with  a  cone  and  ball  and  other  chilly  objects,  the 
effect  of  which  w^as  to  fill  my  mind  with  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  the  dreariness  of  art  education  under  the  Kensington  system. 
A  short  time,  therefore,  sufficed  to  disgust  me  with  the  Art 
School,  and  1  preferred  to  stay  at  home  caricaturing  my 
relatives,  educating  myself,  and  practising  alone  the  rudiments 
of  my  art. 

Early  in  my  teens,  how^ever,  I  was  invited  to  join  the  Life 
School  of  the  Hibernian  Academy,  as  there  hajDpened  to  be  a 
paucity  of  students  at  that  institution,  and  in  order  to  secure 
the  Government  grant  it  was  necessary  to  bring  them  up  to 
the  required  number.  But  here  also  there  was  no  idea  of 
l^roper  teaching.  Some  fossilised  member  of  the  Academy 
would  stand  about  roasting  his  toes  over  the  stove.  A  recollec- 
tion of  a  fair  si)ecimen  of  the  body  still  haunts  me.  He  used 
to    roll    round    tlie    easels,    and   you    l)ecame   conscious    of   his 


^^   -' ' 


CONFESSIONS   OF   MY   CHILDHOOD— AND    AFTER.        13 

approaching  presence  by  an  aroma  of  onions.  I  believe  he 
was  a  landscape  painter,  and  saw  no  more  beauty  in  the  female 
form  divine  than  in  a  haystack.  It  was  his  custom  to  take 
up  a  huge  piece  of  charcoal  and  come  down  upon  one  of  your 
delicately  drawn  pencil  lines  of  a  figure  with  a  terrible  stroke 
about  an  inch  wide. 

"  There,  me  boy,"  he  would  exclaim,  "  that's  what  it  wants," 
and  walk  on,  leaving  you  in  doubt  upon  which  side  of  the  line 
you  had  drawn  he  intended  his  alteration  to  come. 

I  soon  decided  to  have  my  own  models  and  study  for  myself, 
and  this  practice  I  have  maintained  to  the  present  day.  I  really 
don't  know  what  Mrs.  Grundy  would  have  said  if  she  had  known 
that  at  this  early  age  I  was  drawing  Yenuses  from  the  life, 
instead  of  tinting  the  illustrations  to  "Robinson  Crusoe"  or 
"  Gulliver's  Travels"  in  my  playroom  at  home. 

Few  imagine  that  a  caricaturist  requires  models  to  draw  from. 
Although  I  will  not  further  digress  at  this  point,  I  may  perhaps 
be  pardoned  if  I  return  later  on  in  this  book  to  the  explanation 
of  my  modus  operandi — a  subject  which,  if  I  may  judge  from 
the  number  of  letters  I  receive  about  it,  is  likely  to  prove  of 
interest  to  a  large  number  of  my  readers. 

It  was  when  I  was  still  quite  a  boy  that  my  first  great  chance 
came.  Being  in  Dublin,  I  was  asked  one  day  by  my  friend  the 
late  Mr.  A.  M.  Sullivan  to  make  some  illustrations  for  a  paper 
called  Zozimiis,  of  which  he  was  the  editor  and  founder.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Zozimus  was  the  Irish  Punch.  Mr.  Sullivan, 
who  was  a  Nationalist,  and  a  man  of  exceptional  energy  and 
ability,  began  life  as  an  artist.  He  came  to  Dublin,  I  was  told, 
as  a  very  }'oung  man,  and  began  to  paint ;  but  the  sails  of  his 
ships  were  pronounced  to  be  far  too  yellow,  the  seas  on  which 
the  vessels  floated  were  derided  as  beinsf  far  too  green,  while  the 
skies  above  them  were  scoffed  at  as  being  far  too  blue.  In 
these  adverse  circumstances,  then,  the  artist  soon  drifted  into 
journalism,  and,  inducing  his  brothers  to  join  him  in  his  new 
venture,  thenceforth  took  up  the  pen  and  al)andoned  the  brush. 
Each  member  of  the  family  became  a  well-known  figure  in 
Parliamentary  life.      Mr.  T.  D.   Sullivan,  the  poet  of  the  Irish 


U  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A   CARICATURIST. 

Party,  is  still  a  well-known  figure  in  the  world  of  politics ;  l)ut  my 
friend  Mr.  A.  ]\r.  Sullivan,  who  died  some  years  ago,  belonged 
rather  to  the  more  moderate  regime  which  prevailed  in  the  Irish 
Party  during  the  leadership  of  Mr.  Butt. 

At  the  time  when  I  first  made  his  acquaintance  he  was  the 
editor  and  moving  spirit  of  the  Nation.  It  was  a  curious  office, 
and  I  can  recall  many  whom  I  first  met  there  who  have 
since  come  more  or  less  prominently  to  the  front  in  public  life. 
There  Avas  Mr.  Sexton,  whom  my  friend  "  Toby "  has  since 
christened  "  Windbag  Sexton"  in  his  Parliamentary  reports. 
IMr.  Sexton  then  presided  over  the  scissors  and  paste  department 
of  the  journals  owned  by  Mr.  A.  M.  Sullivan,  and,  unlike  the 
posing  orator  he  afterwards  became,  was  at  that  early  stage  of 
his  career  of  a  very  modest  and  retiring  disposition.  Mr.  Leamy 
also,  I  think,  was  connected  with  the  staff,  while  Mr.  Dennis 
Sullivan  superintended  the  sale  of  the  papers  in  the  publishing 
dej)artment. 

But  the  central  figure  in  the  office  was  unquestionably  the 
editor  and  proprietor,  Mr.  A.  M.  Sullivan.  His  personality  was 
of  itself  remarkable.  Possessed  of  wonderful  energy  and  nerve, 
he  was  a  confirmed  teetotaller,  and  his  prominent  eyes,  beaming 
with  intelligence,  seemed  almost  to  be  starting  from  his  head  as, 
intent  upon  some  project,  he  darted  about  the  office,  ever  and 
anon  checking  his  erratic  movements  to  give  further  directions 
to  his  subordinates,  when  he  had  a  funny  habit  of  placing  his 
hand  on  his  mouth  and  blowinsr  his  moustache  throue'h  his 
fingers,  much  to  the  amusement  of  his  listeners,  and  to  my 
astonishment,  as  I  stood  modestly  in  a  corner  of  the  editorial 
sanctum  observing  with  awe  the  great  Mr.  Sexton,  who,  amid 
the  distractions  of  scissors  and  paste,  would  drawl  out  a 
sentence  or  two  in  a  voice  strono-ly  i-esemblinof  the  sarcastic 
tones  of  Mr.  Labouchere. 

In  another  part  of  the  office  sat  Mr.  T.  D.  Sullivai],  the  poet 
aforesnid,  who,  like  his  brother,  is  a  genial  and  kindly  man  at 
heart,  although  possessing  the  volcanic  temperament  characteristic 
of  his  family.  There  he  sat — a  poet  with  a  large  family — his 
hair  dishevelled,  his  trousers  worked  W  excitement  halfway  up 


COI^^FESSIONS    OF   MY    CHILDHOOD— AND    AFTER.        15 

his  calves,  emitting  various  stertorous  sounds  after  the  manner 
of  his  brother,  as  he  savagely  tore  open  the  recently-arrived 
English  newspapers.  Such  was  the  interior  of  the  office  of  the 
Nation,  the  representative  organ  of  the  most  advanced  type  of 
the  National  Press  of  Ireland. 

But  Zozimus,  the  paper  to  which  I  was  then  contributing,  had 
nothing  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  publications  issuing  from 
that  office.  It  was  of  a  purely  social  character,  and  was  a  praise- 
worthy attempt  to  do  something  of  a  more  artistic  nature  than 
the  coarsely-conceived  and  coarsely-executed  National  cartoons 
which  were  the  only  specimens  of  illustrative  art  produced  in 
Ireland.  Fortunately  for  me,  there  was  an  effort  made  in 
Dublin  just  then  to  produce  a  better  class  of  publications,  and 
the  result  was  that  I  began  to  get  fairly  busy,  although  it  was 
merely  a  wave  of  artistic  energy,  which  did  not  last  long,  but 
soon  subsided  into  that  dead  level  of  mediocrity  which  does  not 
appear  likely  to  be  again  disturbed. 

I  was  now  in  my  seventeenth  year,  and,  intent  on  making  as 
much  hay  as  possible  the  while  the  sun  shone,  I  accepted  every 
kind  of  work  that  was  offered  me  ;  and  a  stninge  medley  it  was. 
Keligioas  books,  medical  works,  scientific  treatises,  scholastic 
primers  and  story  books  afforded  in  turn  illustrative  material  for 
my  pencil.  One  week  I  was  engaged  upon  designs  for  the  most 
advanced  Catholic  and  Jesuitical  manuals,  and  the  next  upon 
similar  work  for  a  Protestant  prayer-book.  At  one  moment  it 
seemed  as  if  I  were  destined  to  achieve  fame  as  an  artist  of  the 
ambulance  corps  and  the  dissecting-room.  One  of  my  earliest 
dreams — which  I  attribute  to  the  ft\ct  that  my  eldest  brother, 
with  whom  I  had  much  in  common,  was  a  doctor — had  been  to 
adopt  the  medical  profession.  Curiously  enough,  my  brother 
also  had  a  taste  for  caricaturing,  and,  like  the  illustrious  John 
Leech  in  his  medical  student  days,  he  was  wont  to  embellish  his 
notes  in  the  hospital  lecture-room  with  pictorial  jeux  cVesprit  of 
a  livelier  cast  than  those  for  which  scope  is  usually  afforded  by 
the  discourses  of  the  learned  Mr.  Sawbones. 

I  remember  that  about  this  period  a  leading  surgeon  was 
anxious  that  I   should   devote    myself  to    the    pursuit    of  this 


16 


COXFESSIOXS    OF   A    CARICATURIST. 


anytliiiig  but  pleasant  form  of  art,  and  seriously  proposed  that  I 
should  draw  and  paint  for  liim  some  of  his  surgical  cases.  I 
accepted  his  offer  without  hesitation,  and,  burning  to  distinguish 
myself  as  an  anatomical  expert  with  the  brush,  I  gave  instruction 
to  our  family  ])ut('her  to  send  me,  as  a  model  to  study  from,  a 
kidney,  which  was  to  be  the  acme  of  goriness  and  as  repulsive  in 
appearance  as  possible.  Of  this  piece  of  uncooked  meat  I  made 
a  quite  pre-Raphaelite  study  in  water-colours,   but  so  realistic 


AN    EARLY    ILLUSTRATION    ON    WOOU    BY    ILVRUY    FLKM^S. 
ENGRAVED   BY   HIM. 


I'AK'J'LY 


was  the  result  that  the  eftect  it  had  upon  me  was  the  very 
antithesis  to  what  I  anticipated,  disgusting  me  to  such  an  extent 
that  I  not  only  declined  to  pursue  further  anatomical  illustration, 
but  for  years  afterwards  was  quite  unable  to  touch  a  kidney, 
althou2;li  1  believe  that  had  I  selected  a  calf's  head  or  a  suckiug- 
pig  for  my  maiden  effort  in  this  direction,  I  might  by  now  have 
blossomed  into  a  Rembrandt  or  a  liandseer. 

Amongst  other  incidents  which  occurred  during  tliia  period  of 
my  life  was  one  which  it  now  almost  makes  me  shudder  to  think 
of.     I  was  commissioned  by  no  less  a  personage  than  the  late 


CONFESSIONS   OF  MY   CHILDHOOD— AND    AFTER.         17 

Mr.  Pigott,  of  Parnell  Commission  notoriety,  to  illustrate  for 
him  a  story  of  the  broadest  Irish  humour.  Little  did  1  think 
when  I  entered  his  office  in  Abbey  Street,  Dublin,  and  had  an 
interview  with  the  genial  and  pleasant-looking  little  man  with 
the  eye-glass,  that  he  would  one  day  play  so  prominent  a  role  in 
the  Parliamentary  drama,  or  that  the  weak  little  arm  he  extended 
to  me  was  destined  years  afterwards  to  be  the  instrument  of  a 
tragedy.  1  can  truly  say,  at  all  events,  my  recollection  as  a  boy 
of  sixteen  of  the  great  Times  forger  is  by  no  means  unfavourable, 
and  he  dwells  in  my  memory  as  one  of  the  most  pleasant  and 
genial  of  men.  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  say  that  in  feeling  I  was 
anything  but  a  Nationalist,  because  in  Ireland,  generally  speak- 
ing, you  must  be  either  black  or  white.  Eut  like  a  lawyer 
who  takes  his  brief  from  every  source,  I  never  studied  who  my 
clients  were  when  they  required  my  juvenile  services. 

Although  I  was  not  of  Irish  parentage  and  did  not  lean 
towards  Nationalism  in  politics,  it  was  necessary  to  sympathise 
now  and  then  with  the  down-trodden  race.  For  instance, 
I  remember  that  one  evening  a  respectable- looking  mechanic 
called  at  my  father's  house  and  requested  to  see  me.  His 
manner  was  strange  and  mysterious,  and  as  he  wanted  to 
see  me  alone,  I  took  him  into  an  anteroom,  where,  with  my 
hand  on  the  door  handle  and  the  other  within  easy  distance  of 
the  bell,  I  asked  the  excitable-lookino-  strang^er  the  nature  of  his 
business.  Pulling  from  his  pocket  a  roll  of  one-pound  Irish 
bank-notes,  he  thrust  them  into  my  hand,  and  besought  me  at 
the  same  time  not  to  refuse  the  request  he  was  about  to  make. 
An  idea  flashed  through  my  mind  that  perhaps  he  had  seen  me 
coming  out  of  the  offices  of  the  National  Press,  and  had  jumped 
to  the  conclusion  that  I  could  therefore  be  bought  over  to 
perpetrate  some  terrible  political  crime.  I  even  imagined  that 
in  the  roll  of  notes  I  should  find  the  knife  with  which  the  fell 
deed  had  to  be  done.  Seeing  that  I  shrank  from  him,  he  seized 
hold  of  my  arm,  and,  in  a  most  pitiable  voice,  said  : 

"Don't,  young  sorr,  refuse  me  what  I  am  about  to  ask  you. 
I'm  only  a  working  man,  but  here  are  all  my  savings,  which  you 
may  take  if  you  will  just  dhraw  me  a  picter  to  be  placed  at  the 

C. — VOL.    I.  c 


18  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A   CARICATURIST. 

top  of  a  complete  set  of  photographs  of  our  Irish  leaders.  I 
want  Britannia  at  the  liead  of  the  group,  a  bastely  dhrunken  old 
haof,  wid  her  fut  on  the  throat  of  the  beautiful  Erin,  who  is  to 
be  bound  hand  and  fut  wid  chains,  and  being  baten  and  starved. 
Thin  I  want  prisons  at  the  sides,  showing  the  grand  sons  of  Ould 
Oireland  dying  in  their  cells  by  torture,  whilst  a  fine  Oirish 
liberator  wid  dhrawn  sword  is  just  on  the  point  of  killing 
Britannia  outright,  and  so  saving  his  disthressful  country." 

About  this  time  someone  had  been  good  enough  to  inform  me 
that  all  black  and  white  artists  are  in  the  habit  of  enoravino- 

o  o 

their  own  work,  and,  religiously  believing  this,  I  duly  provided 
myself  with  some  engraving  tools,  bought  some  boxwood,  a 
jeweller's  eyeglass,  and  a  sand  bag,  without  which  no  engraver's 
table  can  1^e  said  to  be  complete. 

Then,  setting  to  work  to  practise  the  difficult  art,  1  struggled 
on  as  best  I  could,  until  one  fine  day  a  professional  engraver 
enlightened  me  upon  the  matter.  I  need  scarcely  say  he  went 
into  fits  of  laughter  when  I  told  him  that  every  artist  was 
expected  to  be  a  Bewick,  and  he  pointed  out  to  me  that  not  only 
do  artists  as  a  rule  know  very  little  about  engraving,  but  in 
addition  they  have  often  only  a  limited  knowledge  of  how  to 
draw  for  enojravers. 

However,  thinking  I  should  better  understand  the  difficulties 
of  drawing  for  publishers  if  I  first  mastered  the  technical  art  of 
reproduction,  with  the  assistance  of  the  engraver  aforesaid  I 
rapidly  acquired  sufficient  dexterity  with  the  tools  to  engrave 
my  own  drawings,  and  this  I  continued  to  do  until  I  left  Dublin, 
at  the  age  of  nineteen.  Since  then  I  have  never  utilised  one  of 
my  gravers,  except  to  pick  a  lock  or  open  a  box  of  sardines. 
Nor  is  this  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  that  one  can  make  a 
drawing  in  an  hour  which  takes  a  week  to  engrave,  and  that  an 
engraver  may  take  five  guineas  for  his  share  of  the  work  whilst 
an  artist  may  get  fifty.  There  is  very  little  doubt,  therefore,  as 
to  the  rc.'ason  why  artists  who  can  draw  refrain  from  engraving 
their  own  work. 

In  tlie  studio  of  the  engraver  to  whom  I  have  above  referred 
there  hung  a  huge  map  of  London,  and  as  I  used  to  pore  over  it 


J^i\iw  ^UJIMJAJI^ 


SKETCHES   IN    GALWAY. 

Republished  bij  permission  of  the  proprietors  of  the  "Illustrated  London  News. 


c  2 


CONFESSIONS   OF  MY   CHILDHOOD— AND   AFTER.         21 

I  took  many  an  imaginary  walk  down  Fleet  Street,  many  a 
canter  in  the  Eow,  and  many  a  voyage  to  Greenwich  on  a  penny 
steamboat,  before  I  bade  adieu  to  "  dear  dirty  Dublin  "  in  the 
year  1873,  and,  as  many  have  done  before  me,  arrived  in  the 
*'  little  village  "  in  search  of  fame  and  wealth. 

Just  prior  to  my  leaving  Ireland  for  the  land  of  my  parents  I 
met  no  less  an  editor  than  Tom  Taylor,  who  was  then  the  pre- 
siding genius  of  the  Punch  table,  and  he  gave  me  every 
encouragement  to  hasten  my  migration.  He,  however,  had  just 
returned  from  the  wilds  of  Connemara,  and  before  setting  my 
face  in  the  direction  of  Holyhead  he  strongly  advised  me  also  to 
pay  a  visit  to  the  trackless  wastes  of  the  Western  country,  for  the 
purpose  of  committing  to  paper  the  lineaments  of  the  natives 
indigenous  to  the  soil.  This  I  did  a  week  or  so  before  quitting 
the  land  of  my  birth,  and  the  sketches  I  made  upon  that 
occasion  formed  part  of  my  stock-in-trade  when  I  arrived  in 
London. 

After  making  the  accompanying  page  of  studies,  I  strolled 
along  the  bank  of  the  river ;  and  while  sketching  some  men 
breaking  stones  an  incident  happened  which  first  aroused  me 
to  the  fact  that  the  lot  of  the  sketching  artist  is  not  always 
a  happy  one.  A  fiend  in  human  shape— an  overbearing  over- 
seer— came  up  at  the  moment,  and  roundly  abused  the  poor 
labourers  for  taking  the  "  base  Saxon's  "  coin.  Inciting  them  to 
believe  that  I  was  a  special  informer  from  London,  he  laughed 
on  my  declaring  that  1  was  merely  a  novice,  and  informed  me 
that  I  ought  to  be  "  dhrounded."  He  was  about  to  suit  the 
action  to  the  word  and  pitch  me  into  the  salmon-stuffed  river 
when  he  was  stopped  by  the  mediation  of  my  models,  and  I 
escaped  from  the  grip  of  the  agitator.  In  due  course  I  found 
myself  in  the  Claddagh,  a  village  of  mud  huts,  which  formed 
the  frontispiece  by  John  Leech  to  "  A  Little  Tour  in  Ireland  " 
by  "An  Oxonian,"  "  a  village  of  miserable  cabins,  the  walls  of 
mud  and  stone,  and  for  the  most  part  windowless,  the  floors 
damp  and  dirty,  and  the  roofs  a  mass  of  rotten  straw  and 
weeds."  Pigs  and  fowls  mixed  up  with  boats  and  fish  refuse. 
Women  old,  dried  and  ugly  ;  girls  young,  dark,  of  Spanish  type, 


22  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

scantily  dressed  in  bright-coloured  short  garments,  all  tattered 
and  torn  ;  and  children  grotesque  beyond  description.     I  sketch 
three  members  of  one  family   clothed  (I)  in  the  three  articles  of 
attire  discarded  by  their  father — one  claimed  the  coat,  another 
the  trousers,  whilst  the  third  had  only  a  waistcoat.     No  doubt 
Leech   had  seen  the  same  sixteen  years  before,  when  he  was 
there  ;  and  if  "  the  Oxonian,"  who  survives  him — Canon  Hole,  of 
Kochester  —were  to  make  another  little  tour  in  Ireland,  he  would 
find  the  Claddagh  still  a  spot  to  give  an  Englishman  '"'  a  new 
sensation."     All  I  can  say  is,  that  having  escaped  "  dhrouning'* 
in  the  river  when  in   Galway  in    1873,  I   have    visited  many 
countries  and   seen   much  filth  and  misery,  but   I   have    seen 
nothing  approaching  the  sad  squalor  of  the  wild  West  of  Ireland. 
The  majority  of  those  I  sketched  were  hardly  human.     Tom 
Taylor  was  right — '■  I  would  find  such  characters  there  not  to  be 
found  in  all  the  world  over,"  and  I  haven't.     The  people  got  on 
my  overstrung  youthful  nerves.     I  left  the  country  the  moment 
I  had  sufficient  material  for  ray  sketches.     I  had  shaken  off"  the 
unpleasant  feeling  of  being  murdered  in  the  river.     I   had  sur- 
vived  livino;  a  week  or  two  in  the  worst  inns  in  the  world. 
I  had  risked  typhoid  and  every  other  disease  fostered  by  the 
insanitary  surroundings — ^for   I  had  to  hide  myself  in  narrow 
turnings  and  obnoxious  corners  so  as  to  sketch  unseen,  as  the 
religion  of  the  natives  opposed  any  attempt  to  have  themselves 
"  dhrawn,"  believing  that  the  destruction  of  their  "  pictur' " 
would  be  fatal  to  their  souls  !     I  had  sketched  the  famous  house 
in  Deadman's  Lane  —and  listened  as  I  sketched  it,  in  the  falling 
shades  of  night,  to  the  old,  old  story  of  Fitz-Stephen  the  Warden, 
who  had  lived  there,  and  had  in  virtue  of  his  office  to  assist  at 
the  hanging  of  his  own  son.     And,  wdien   in  the  dark  I   was 
strolling  back  to  my  hotel,  my  reflections  were  suddenly  inter- 
rupted by  something  powerful  seizing  me  in  a  grip  of  iron  round 
my  leg.      I  was  held   as  in   a  vice,  and  could  hardly  move,   by 
what — a  huo:e  doo: — a  wolf  ?    No,  soniethino-  heavier  ;  somethiiifj 
more  hideous  ;  something  clothed  !  As  I  dragged  it  under  a  lamp 
I  saw  revealed   a  liuge  head,  covered   l)y  a   black  skull  cap — a 
man's  head — a  dwarf,  mutteiino-  in  Irish  somethino-  I  could  not 


CONFESSIONS   OF  MY   CHILDHOOD— AND   AFTER. 


23 


understand — except  one  word,  "Judy  !  Judy  !  Judy  !  "  It  was 
a  woman  of  extraordinary  strength  thus  clasped  on  to  me.  I 
dragged  her  to  the  hotel  door,  where  I  engaged  an  interpreter  in 
the  shape  of"  the  "boots,"  and  made  a  bargain  with  *' Judy"  to 
release  me  on  my  giving  her  one  shilling,  and  to  sit  to  me  for 
this  sketch  for  half-a-crown.  I  have  still  a  lively  recollection  of 
the  vice-like  grip. 

My  friend  w^ho  had  introduced  me  to  the  editor  of  Punch 
was  a  prominent  city  official,  and  entertainer  in  chief  of  all  men 
of  talent  from  London,  and  was  also, 
like  Tom  Taylor,  an  author  and  drama- 
tist; and  when  1  was  a  boy  I  illustrated 
one  of  his  first  stories.  He  also  intro- 
duced me  behind  the  scenes  at  the  old 
Theatre  Eoyal.  I  recollect  my  boyish 
delight  when  one  day  I  was  on  the 
stao;e  durins;  the  rehearsal  of  the  Italian 
opera.  Shall  I  ever  forget  that  treat  ? 
It  was  much  greater  in  my  eyes  than 
the  real  performance  later  on.  If  my 
memory  serves,  "Don  Giovanni"  was 
the  opera.  One  of  the  principals  was 
suddenly  taken  ill,  and  this  rehearsal 
was  called  for  the  benefit  of  the  under- 
study. He  was  a  dumpy,  puffy  little  Italian,  and  played 
the  heavy  father.  Madame  Titiens  was — well — the  heavy 
daughter.  In  the  first  scene  she  has  to  throw  herself  upon  her 
prostrate  father.  This  is  the  incident  I  saw  rehearsed :  the 
little  fat  father  lay  on  the  dusty  stage,  with  one  eye  on  the  o.P. 
side.  As  soon  as  tlie  massive  form  of  Titiens  bore  down  upon 
him  he  rolled  over  and  over  out  of  the  way.  This  pantomime 
highly  amused  all  of  us,  the  ever-jovial  Titiens  in  particular, 
and  she  again  and  again  rushed  laughingly  in,  but  with  the 
same  result. 

The  first  actor  I  ever  saw  perform  was  Phelps,  in  "The  Man  of 
the  World."  If  anything  could  disillusionise  a  youth  regarding 
the  romance  of  the  theatre,  that  play  surely  would.     Be  it  to 


'.JUJ)Y,"  THE  GALWAY  DWAEF. 


24  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

my  credit  that  my  first  impression  was  admiration  for  a  fine — 
if  dull — performance.  From  that  day  I  have  been  a  constant 
theatre-goer.  If  I  am  to  believe  the  following  anecdote,  published 
in  a  Dublin  paper  a  few  years  ago,  I  "  did  the  theatre  in 
style,"  and  had  an  early  taste  which  I  did  not  possess  for 
making  jokes. 

"  The  jarvey  drove  Harry  Furniss,  when  a  boy,  down  to  the 
old  Theatre  Royal,  Dublin.  On  the  way  there  Jehu  enquired  of 
the  budding  artist  whether  it  was  true  that  the  roof  was  provided 
with  a  tank  whence  every  part  of  the  building  could  be  deluged, 
shower-bath  fashion,  if  necessary.  'Yes,'  replied  Raphael 
junior ;  'and,  you  see,  I  always  bring 
an  umbrella  in  case  of  fire.'" 

I  may  confess  that  I  have  only  once 
appeared  in  theatricals,  and  that  was  in 
high  comedy  as  a  member  of  the  Dublin 
Amateur  Theatrical  Society.  The  play 
was  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  and  I  took 
the  part  of — think ! — Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I 
w^as  only  seventeen,  and  very  small  for 
PHELPS,  THE  FIRST  ACTOR  my  agc,  SO  I  owc  any  success  I  may  have 
I  SAW.  made    to   the    costumier  and  wig-maker. 

The  Tony  Lumpkin  was  so  excellent  that  he  adopted  the  stage 
as  his  profession,  and  became  a  very  popular  comedian  ;  and 
our  Diggory  is  now  a  judge — "  and  a  good  judge  too" — in  the 
Hio-h  Court.  ' 

o 

It  was  on  a  bright,  breezy  morning  late  in  July,  1873, 1  shook 
the  dust  of  "  dear  dirty  Dublin  "  ofi"  my  feet.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  the  Welsh  railways,  the  Irish  are  notoriously  the  slowest 
in  the  world,  and  on  that  particular  morning  the  mail  train 
seemed  to  my  impatient  mind  to  progress  pig- ways.  The  engine 
was  attac;hed  to  the  rear  of  the  train  and  faced  the  station,  so 
that  when  it  began  to  pull  it  was  only  the  "  parvarsity  in  the 
baste"  caused  it  to  go  in  the  opposite  direction,  towards  Kings- 
town, in  an  erratic,  spasmodic,  and  uncertain  fashion,  so  that  the 
eight  miles  journey  seemed  to  me  eighty.  It  was  quite  a  tedious 
journey  to  Saltliill  and  Blackrock.      At  the  latter  station  I  saw 


COJS'-FESSIOFS   OF  MY   CHILDHOOD— AND    AFTER.         25 


for  the  last  time  the  porter  famous  for  being  the  slave  of  liabit. 
For  years  it  had  been  his  duty  to  call  out  the  name  of  the  station, 
"  Blackrock  !  Blackrock  !  Blackrock  !  "  Indue  course  he  was 
removed  to  Salthill  fetation,  on  the  same  line,  and  well  do  I 
remember  how  he  puzzled  many  a  Saxon  tourist  by  his  calling 
out  continually,  "Blackrock  —  Salthill-I-mane  !  Blackrock  — 
Salthill-I-mane  !  "  No  doubt 
the  traveller  put  this  chronic 
absent-mindedness  down  to 
"  Irish  humour."  I  must  con- 
fess that  I  awree  in  a  srreat 
measure  with  the  opinion  of 
the  late  T.  W.  Robertson 
(author  of  "  Caste,"  "School," 
&c.),  that  the  witticisms  of 
Irisli  carmen  and  others  are 
the    incyenious    inventions   of 

O 

Charles  Lever,  Samuel  Lover, 
William  Carle  ton,  and  other 
educated  men. 

Dickens  failed  to  see  Irish 
humour,  or  in  fact  to  under- 
stand what  was  meant  by  it.  So 
when  he  was  on  tour  with  his 
readings  a  friend  of  mine,  who 
was  his  host,  in  the  North, 
undertook  to  initiate  him  into 
the  mysteries  of  Irish  wit.  As 
a  sample  he  gave  Dickens  the  following:  A  definition  of  nothing, 
— a  footless  stocking  without  a  leg.  This  conveyed  nothing  what- 
ever to  the  mind  of  the  greatest  of  English  humourists ;  but 
when  my  friend  took  him  to  a  certain  spot  and  showed  him  a  wall 
built  round  a  vacant  space,  and  explained  to  him  that  the  native 
masons  were  instructed  to  build  a  wall  round  an  old  ruined  church 
to  protect  it,  and  pulled  down  the  church  for  the  material  to 
build  the  wall,  he  laughed  heartily,  and  acknowledged  the  Irish 
had  a  sense  of  humour  after  all, — if  not,  a  quaint  absence  of  it. 


MRS.  HARDCASTLE.      MR.  HARRY  FURNISS, 
FROM  AN   EARLY   SKETCH. 


26  CONFESSIONS  OF  A   CARICATURIST. 

To  me  so-called  Irish  wit  is  a  curious  combination  not  wholly 
dependent  on  humour,  and  frequently  unconscious.  There  is  a 
story  that  when  ]\Ir.  Beerbohm  Tree  arrived  in  Dublin  he  was 
received  by  a  crowd  of  his  admirers,  and  jumping  on  to  a  car 
said  to  his  jarvey,  "  Splendid  reception  that,  driver! " 

The  jarvey  thought  a  moment,  and  replied,  "  Maybe  ye 
think  so,  but  begorrah,  it  ain't  a  patch  on  the  small-pox  scare!" 
Was  that  meant  ? 

The  poor  Saxon  "towrist" — what  he  may  suffer  in  the 
Emerald  Isle  !  There  is  a  story  on  record  of  three  Irishmen 
rushing  away  from  the  race  meeting  at  Punchestown  to  catch 
a  train  back  to  Dublin.  At  the  moment  a  train  from  a  long 
distance  pulled  up  at  the  station,  and  tlie  three  men  scrambled 
in.  In  the  carriage  was  seated  one  other  passenger.  As  soon 
as  they  had  regained  their  breath,  one  said  : 

"Pat,  have  you  got  th'  tickets  1 " 

"  What  tickets  ?  I've  got  me  loife ;  I  thought  I'd  have  lost 
that  gettin'  in  th'  thrain.     Have  you  got  'em,  Moike  ?  " 

"  Oi,  begorrah,  I  haven't." 

"  Oh,  we're  all  done  for  thin,"  said  the  third.  "  They'll  charge 
us  roight  from  the  other  soide  of  Oireland." 

The  old  gentleman  looked  over  his  newspaper  and  said  : 

"You  are  quite  safe,  gintlemcn ;  wait  till  we  get  to  the  next 
station." 

They  all  three  looked  at  each  other.  "  Bedad,  he's  a 
directhor, — we're  done  for  now  entoirely." 

But  as  soon  as  the  train  pulled  up  the  little  gentleman 
jumped  out  and  came  back  with  three  first-class  tickets.  Hand- 
ing them  to  the  astonished  strangers,  he  said,  "  Whist,  111  tell  ye 
how  I  did  it.  I  wint  along  the  thrain — 'Tickets  plaze,  tickets 
plaze,'  I  called,  and  these  belong  to  three  Saxon  to  wrists  in 
another  carriage." 

On  the  morning  I  left  Ireland  to  seek  my  fortune  in  London 
I  had  a  youthful  notion  that,  once  on  the  mainland  of  my 
parents'  country,  St.  Paul's  and  the  smoke  of  London  would  be 
visible  ;  but  we  had  })assed  through  the  Menai  tunnel,  grazed 
Coiiwav  Castle  walls,  and  skirted  miles  of  the  Welsh  rock-bound 


CONFESSIONS   OF  MY   CHILDHOOD— AND   AFTER.        27 

coast,  and  yet  no  St.  Paul's  was  visible  to  my  naked  eye  which 
was  plastered  against  the  window-pane  of  the  carriage.  The 
other  eye,  clothed  and  in  its  right  mind,  inspected  the  carriage 
and  discovered  that  there  were  two  other  occupants — a  lady  and 
her  maid.  These  interesting  passengers  had  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  the  Channel  passage,  and  were  eating  their  lunch. 
The  lady  politely  offered  me  some  sandwiches.  "  No,  thanks," 
I  replied  ;  "  I  shall  lunch  in  London."  This  reminds  me  of  a 
story  I  heard  when  I  was  in  America,  of  two  young  English 
ladies  arriving  at  New  York.  They  immediately  entered  the 
Northern  Express  at  the  West  Central.  About  7  o'clock  in  the 
evening  they  arrived  at  Niagara — half  an  hour  or  so  is  given  to 
the  passengers  to  alight  and  look  at  the  wonderful  Falls.  The 
gentleman  who  told  me  the  story  informed  me  that  as  the  two 
ladies  were  getting  back  into  the  carriage  he  asked  them  if  they 
were  going  to  dine  at  once.  They,  ignorant  of  the  vastness  of 
the  "  gre — e — -at  country  Amuraka,"  replied,  "  Oh,  no,  thanks, 
we  are  going  to  dine  with  our  friends  when  we  arrive.  It 
can't  be  long  now,  we  have  been  travelling  so  fast  all  the 
day  !  " 

"  And  may  I  ask,  young  ladies,  where  your  friends 
live  ?  " 

"  We  are  going  to  an  uncle  who  has  been  taken  suddenly  ill 
in  San  Francisco," 

These  young  ladies  would  have  had  to  wait  certainly  five' 
days  for  their  dinner, — I  only  five  hours. 

The  strange  lady  and  I  conversed  a  great  deal  on  various 
topics.  By  degrees  she  discovered  that  I  was  a  young  artist, 
friendless,  and  on  his  way  to  the  great  city  to  battle  with 
fortune.  I  may  have  told  her  of  my  history,  of  my  youthful 
ambitions  and  my  professional  plans,- — -anyway  she  told  me  of 
hers,  and,  while  her  maid  was  lazily  slambering,  she  confessed 
to  me  her  troubles. 

"  My  story,"  she  said,  "  is  a  sad  one.  I  am  of  good  family, 
and  I  married  a  well-known  professional  London  man.  He 
turned  out  to  be  a  gambler,  and  ran  through  my  money,  and  I 
returned  to  my  parents.     I  have  left  them  this  morning  again, 


28  COXFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

and,  like  you,  I  am  now  on  my  way  to  London  to  start  in  life, 
and  if  possible  make  my  own  living.  You  see  my  appearance 
is  not  altogether  unprepossessing"  (she  was  tall,  singularly 
handsome,  a  refined  woman  of  style)  ...  I  bowed  .  .  . 
*'  Well,  I  am  also  fortunate  in  having  a  good  voice,  it  is 
well-trained,  and  1  am  going  to  London  to  sing  as  a  paid 
professional  in  the  houses  in  which  I  have  formerly  been  a 
guest." 

1  sympathised  with  her,  and  she  continued,  weeping,  to 
relate  to  me  events  of  her  unhappy  married  life  until  we  arrived 
at  Euston.  I  saw  her  and  her  maid  into  a  four-wheeler,  and  I 
saw  their  luggage  on  the  top.  She  gave  me  her  card  with  her 
parents'  address  in  London  written  on  it,  and  requested  that  I 
would  write  to  her  at  that  address,  as  she  would  like  to  hear 
how  I  got  on  in  London.  I  never  saw  her  again.  But  I  did 
write  home,  and  found  there  was  such  a  lady,  her  family  were 
well-known  society  people  in  Ireland,  and  that  her  marriage  had 
not  been  a  happy  one. 

After  three  years  in  London  I  ran  over  to  Ireland  to  see 
my  parents.  On  my  return  I  seemed  to  miss  the  charming 
companion  of  my  journey  over  the  same  ground  three  years 
previously.  Two  uninteresting  men  were  in  the  carriage  :  a 
typical  German  professor  on  tour,  and  communicative  ;  and  a 
typical  English  gentleman,  uncommunicative.  As  the  journey 
•was  a  long  one  the  German  smoked,  ate  and  drank  himself  to 
sleep,  and  after  some  hours  the  other  man  and  I  exchanged  a 
word.  The  fact  is  I  thought  I  knew  his  face, — I  told  him  so. 
He  thouoht  he  knew  mine.  "  Had  we  gone  to  school  tooether  ?" 
*'  No."  He  was  at  least  ten  years  my  senior.  It  happened  he 
had  been  to  school  with  my  half-brother  (my  father  was  married 
twice, —  I  am  the  youngest  son  of  his  second  family).  We 
chatted  freely  about  each  other's  family  and  on  various  topics, 
including  the  sleeping  Teuton  in  the  corner.  I  incidentally 
mentioned  my  last  journey.  The  lady  interested  him,  so  I  told 
him  of  the  way  in  which  slie  confessed  to  me.  I  waxed 
e](i(|Uf'nt  over  lier  wrongs.  He  got  still  more  excited  as  I 
described  lier  ]uis1)and  as  slie  described  him  to  me  ;  and  as  the 


CONFESSIONS  OF  MY   CHILDHOOD— AND   AFTER.         29 

train  rolled  into  Euston,  he  said,  "  Well,  you  know  who  I  am,  I 
know  who  you  are, — I'll  tell  you  one  thing  more  :  that  woman's 
story  is  perfectly  true — I'm  her  husband  ! " 

That  was  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  coincidences  which 
ever  happened  to  me.  Three  years  after  meeting  the  wife, 
over  the  same  journey,  at  the  same  time  of  the  year,  I  meet 
the  husband ;  and  I  had  never  been  the  journey  in  the 
meantime. 


CHAPTER  II. 


-rC, 


BOHEMIAN    CONFESSIONS. 

1  arrive  in  London — A  Eogue  and  Vagabond— Two  Ladies — Letters  of 
Introduction — Bohemia — A  Distinguished  Member — My  Double— 
A  Eara  Avis — The  Duke  of  Broadacres — The  Savages — A  Souvenir- 
Portraits  of  the  Past -J.  L.  Toole— x\rt  and  Artists— Sir  Spencer 
Wells — John  Pettie — Milton's  Garden. 

I   DID  not  make  my   appearance  in  London  with   merely  the 
proverbial   half-crown    in    my   pocket,   nor  was    I    breathlessly 

expectant  to  find  the  streets  paved 
with  gold.  Thanks  chiefly  to  my 
savings  in  Dublin,  my  balance  at  my 
bankers'  was  sufticient  to  keep  me  for 
at  least  a  year,  and  as  soon  as  the 
editors  returned  from  their  summer 
holidays  I  was  fortunate  enough  to 
procure  commissions,  which  have 
been  pouring  in  pretty  steadily  ever 
since. 

It  was  with  a  strange  feeling  that 
I  found  myself  for  the  first  time  in 
London,  among  four  millions  of  people, 
with  not  one  of  whom  I  could  claim 
acquaintance,  and  I  think  it  will  not  be 
out  of  place  if  1  here  offer  a  hint  which  mny  possibly  be  of  use 
to  other  young  men  who  are  placed  in  similar  circumstances. 
Upon  first  coming  to  the  metropolis,  then,  let  them  invariably 
act,  in  as  much  as  it  is  possible,  as  if  they  were  Londoners  old  and 
seasoned.  To  stand  gazing  at  St.  Paul's  Avitli  mouth  agape  and 
eyes  astare,  or  to  enquire  your  way  to  the  National  Gallery  or 
.M;ulnmo  Tn>;-;iii(l's.  is  a  sure  means  of  fiiidino-  vourself  ere  lonof 


CARICATURE      OF      MYSELF, 
,  DRAWN     AVHEN     I     FIRST 
ARRIVE])   IX    LOXDOX. 


BOHEMIAN  CONFESSIONS.  31 

in  the  Lands  of  the  unscrupulous  and  designing.  For  my  part, 
as  I  took  my  first  admiring  peep  at  the  masterpiece  of  Sir 
Christopher,  I  whistled  to  myself  with  an  air  of  nonchalance, 
and  as  I  passed  down  Fleet  Street  I  made  a  point  of  nodding 
familiarly  to  the  passers-by  as  if  I  were  already  a  fi-equent 
habitue  of  the  thoroughfare  of  letters.  Did  I  find  myself 
accosted  by  any  particularly  ingenuous  stranger  asking  his  way, 
I  always  promptly  told  him  to  go  on  as  straight  as  ever  he 
could  go — a  piece  of  advice  which,  coming  from  one  so  young, 
I  think  was  highly  proper  and  creditable,  whatever  may  have 
proved  its  value  in  some  cases  from  a  topographical  point  of 
view.  On  the  other  hand,  the  followino;  incident  will  serve  to 
show  the  prudence  of  exercising  due  caution  in  addressing 
strangers  oneself. 

Upon  the  evening  of  my  arrival  in  the  big  city  I  had  dined 
at  the  London  Restaurant,  which  was  situate  at  the  corner  of 
Chancery  Lane  and  Fleet  Street,  in  the  premises  now  occupied 
by  Messrs.  Partridge  and  Cooper  (the  name  of  this  firm  must 
not  be  taken  as  an  indication  of  the  nature  of  my  repast),  and, 
fired  with  the  curiosity  of  youth,  I  mounted  the  knifeboard  of 
an  omnibus  bound  for  Hyde  Park.  Arrived  at  the  famous 
statue  of  Wellington  astride  the  impossible  horse  which  has 
since  ambled  off  to  the  seclusion  of  Aldershot,  and  which 
at  once  recalled  to  my  mind  the  inimitable  drawings  of  that 
infamous  quadruped  by  John  Leech,  an  artist  who  had  done  as 
much  to  familiarise  me  with  Loudon  scenes  and  characters  with 
his  pencil  as  had  Dickens  with  the  pen,  I  happened  to  ask  a 
sturdy  artisan  who  was  sitting  beside  me  whether  this  was  Hyde 
Park  Corner. 

"  'Ide  Park  !  "  he  muttered.  "  'Oo  are  you  a-tryin'  ter  git  at  ? 
'Ide  Park  I     None  o'  yer  'anky  panky  with  me,  my  covey  !  " 

I  forthwith  slipped  off  that  'bus,  not  a  little  nettled  that  the 
first  person  to  whom  I  had  spoken  in  London  should  have  taken 
me  for  a  rogue  and  a  vagabond. 

I  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  secure  quarters  which  had 
been  recommended  to  me  in  a  comfortable  board  in 2;-house  in  one 
of  the  old-fashioned  Inns  in  Holborn — Thavius'  Liii^in  which,  I 


32  CONFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

was  informed,  whether  accurately  or  not  I  do  not  pretend  to 
know,  tlie  Knight  Temphirs  of  old  had  once  resided.  There 
were  no  Knight  Templars  there  when  I  arrived,  but  in  their 
stead  I  found  some  highly-proper  and  non-belligerent  clerics 
with  their  wives  and  families,  and  other  visitors  from  the 
country,  who  seemed  very  satisfied  with  the  comfortable 
provision  that  was  made  for  them.  But,  best  of  all,  1  found  a 
hostess  who  soon  became  one  of  the  kindest  and  best  of  friends 
I  ever  had,  and  although  I  at  once  engaged  a  studio  in  the 
neighbouring  artistic  quarter  of  Newman  Street,  I  continued  for 
some  time  to  live  in  Thavies'  Inn  in  the  enjoyment  of  the 
pleasant  society  and  many  advantages  of  her  pleasant  home. 

Not  the  least  of  these  to  me  was  the  perfect  gallery  of 
characters  who  were  continually  coming  and  going,  and  the 
many  and  various  studies  I  made  of  the  different  visitors  to  that 
boarding-house  long  supplied  me  with  ample  material  for  my 
sketch-book. 

I  should  be  ungallant  indeed  were  I  to  omit  to  add  that  not 
only  was  it  a  lady  who  first  made  me  feel  at  home  amid  the 
bustle  and  turmoil  of  Modern  Babylon,  but  that  it  was  also  a 
lady  who  primarily  welcomed  me  as  a  contributor  to  the  Press 
and  gave  me  my  first  work  in  London.  Curiously  enough,  both  of 
these  ladies  possessed  points  of  resemblance,  not  only  in  person, 
but  in  manner  and  goodness  of  heart.  It  was  Miss  Florence 
Marryat,  then  editress  of  London  Society,  who  gave  me  my 
first  commission,  and  I  am  more  anxious  to  record  the  fact 
because  I  am  aware  that  many  a  youthful  journalist  besides 
myself  owed  his  first  introduction  to  the  public  to  the  sympathy 
and  enterprise  of  this  accomplished  lad}^  Perhaps  I  have  less 
to  grumble  at  personally  than  most  others  concerning  the  treat- 
ment which,  as  a  young  man,  I  experienced  at  the  hands  of 
editors ;  but  I  must  say  that  the  majority  of  such  potentates 
with  whom  I  then  came  in  contact  lamental)ly  lacked  that 
readiness  to  welcome  new-comers  which  Miss  Florence  JNIarryat 
notably,  and  possil>]y  too  readily,  evinced.  Here  1  may  offer 
a  hint  to  beginners — that  on  coming  to  London  letters  of 
introduction    are    of   little   or    no    value.       One    such    letter    I 


BOHEMIAN  CONFESSIONS.  33 

possessed,  and  it  led  me  into  more  trouble,  and  was  the  means  of 
my  losing  more  time,  than  I  should  ever  have  received  recom- 
pense for,  even  if  it  had  obtained  me  the  work  which  it  was 
intended  to  bring  me. 

In  the  first  place,  these  letters  often  get  into  the  hands  of 
others  than  the  particular  individuals  to  whom  they  are 
addressed.  In  my  case  the  letter  had  been  inadvertently  directed 
to  the  literary  editor  instead  of  to  the  art  editor  of  one  of  the 
largest  publishing  firms,  and  that  gentlcman—I  refer  to  the 
literary  editor — was  good  enough  to  supply  me  with  a  quantity 
of  work.  I  executed  the  commission,  but,  lo  and  behold  I  when 
I  sent  the  work  in,  the  monster  Red  Tape  intervened  in  the 
person  of  the  art  editor,  who  became  scarlet  with  rage  because 
he  had  not  been  invoked  instead  of  his  colleague,  and  promptly 
repudiated  the  entire  contract.  Thereupon  the  literary  editor 
wrote  to  me  saying  that  unless  I  withdrew  my  contributions 
he  would  be  personally  out  of  pocket ;  and  it  may  not  be 
uninteresting  to  record  that  some  day,  when  I  strip  this 
amongst  my  other  mummies,  it  will  be  found  that  he  subse- 
quently became  a  wearer  of  lawn  sleeves.  Thus,  whilst  the  two 
editors  quarrelled  between  themselves,  I  was  left  out  in  the  cold, 
and  became  a  considerable  loser  over  the  transaction. 

Ajri'opos  of  letters  of  introduction,  I  am  reminded  of  a  brother 
artist,  who,  although  a  caricaturist,  was  entirely  devoid  of  guile, 
and,  in  addition,  was  as  absent-minded  as  the  popularly-accepted 
type  of  ardent  scientist  or  professor  of  ultra-abstruse  subject?. 
Well,  this  curious  species  of  satirist  was  setting  forth  on  travels 
in  foreign  climes,  and  in  order  to  lighten  in  some  measure  the 
vicissitudes  inseparable  from  peripatetic  wandering,  he  was  pro- 
vided with  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a  certain  British  consul. 
The  writer  of  this  letter  enclosed  it  in  one  to  my  friend,  in 
which  he  said  that  he  would  find  the  consul  a  most  arrant  snob, 
and  a  bumptious,  arrogant  humbug  as  well — in  fact,  a  cad  to  the 
backbone  ;  but  that  he  (my  friend)  was  not  to  mind  this,  for, 
as  he  could  claim  acquaintanceship  with  several  dukes  and 
duchesses,  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  trot  out  their  names  for  the 
edification  of  the   consul,  who  would   then  render  him   every 

C. — VOL.    I.  D 


34  COXFESSIOXS    OF   A    C ARK ' ATI' R  1ST. 

attention,  and  thus  com})onsate  liini  to  some  extent  for  liaving 
to  come  into  contact  with  such  an  iiisufferal)le  vulgarian.  On  the 
return  of  tlie  guileless  satirist  to  England  the  writer  of  the 
letter  of  introduction  inquired  how  he  had  fared  with  the 
consul,  and  great  was  his  surprise  to  hear  him  drawl  out,  in  his 
habitual  lethargic  manner  : 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  he  did  not  receive  me  very  warmly, 
and  he  did  not  ask  me  to  dinner.  In  fact,  he  struck  me  as 
being  nither  cool." 

"  Well,  you  do  surprise  me  I  "  rejoined  his  friend.  "  He's  a 
horrible  cad,  as  I  told  you  in  my  letter,  but  he's  awfully 
hospitable,  and  I  really  can't  understand  what  you  tell  me. 
You  gave  him  my  letter  of  introduction  ? " 

"Well,  I  thought  so,"  said  my  friend;  "but,  do  you  know, 
on  my  journey  home  I  discovered  it  in  my  pocket-book,  so  I 
must  have  handed  him  instead  your  note  to  me  about  him  ! " 

Of  course,  in  the  remarks  which  I  have  been  making  I  have 
not  been  alluding  to  letters  of  merely  social  introduction,  wliich 
are  of  an  entirely  different  nature.  Such  letters  are  generally 
handed  to  the  individual  to  whom  they  are  addressed  at  more 
propitious  moments,  when  he  is  not  either  hard  at  work,  as  the 
case  may  be,  in  his  editorial  chair,  or  overburdened  with  anxiety 
as  to  the  fluctuations  of  the  Bank  rate. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  I  cannot  refrain  from  citing  here  the  case 
of  another  brother  artist,  who  was  particular  in  the  extreme  as 
regarded  the  neatness  of  his  apparel  and  his  personal  appearance 
in  general ;  in  fact,  he  laboured,  rightly  or  wrongly,  under  the 
impression  that  the  manner  in  which  a  letter  of  introduction  is 
received  and  acted  upon  by  tlie  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed 
depends  u[)on  the  raiment  and  tout  ensernhJe  of  the  bearer. 

Wei],  it  so  happened  that  he  once  had  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  a  man  he  particularly  Avished  to  know,  but,  of  all 
places  in  tli(.'  woi-ld,  fate  had  designed  that  he  should  have  no 
choice  Imt  to  deliver  it  in  the  ])oring  of  the  Channel  Tunnel, 
where  tli(^  di'ipping  roof  rendered  it  necessary  for  all  visitors  to 
be  en<'ase(l  from  head  to  foot  in  the  vilest  and  most  unbecoming 
tarpaulin   overalls.      It   was    in  these    circumstances,   then,  that 


BOHEMIA  N   COJFESSIOXS. 


35 


the  introduction  took  place,  and  as  nothing  came  of  it,  my 
friend  will  now  go  to  his  grave  in  the  firm  belief  that  fine 
feathers  make  fine  birds  in  the  eyes  of  all  those  who  receive 
letters  of  introduction. 

The  first  Bohemian  Club  I  joined  was  located  over  Gaze's 
Tourist  Offices  in  the  Strand.  Nearly  my  first  engagement  in 
London  was  for  a  still  flourishing  sixpenny  weekly.  Started 
in  Wellington  Street,  close  by,  the  editorial  offices  were  there 
certainly,  but  editor,  proprietors,  and  others  were  not.  They 
were  only  to  be  found  in  "the  Club,"  so  through  necessity 
I  became  a  member.  The  flow- 
ing bowl  of  that  iniquitous 
concoction,  punch,  was  brewed 
for  the  staff"  early  in  the  after- 
noon and  kept  flowing  till  early 
the  next  morninof.  The  "Club" 
never  closed  day  or  night  till 
the  broker's  man  took  posses- 
sion and  closed  it  for  good.  I, 
being  young  and  unknown,  was 
surprised  to  find  myself  an 
object  of  attraction  wdienever  1 
was  in  the  Club.  'J'here  was 
somethina;   stransfe    about   me, 

something  mysterious.  This  was  so  marked  that  my  brief  visits 
to  find  my  editor  were  few  and  far  between.  I  discovered  after- 
wards that  the  curiosity  and  attention  paid  me  had  nothing  to  do 
with  my  work,  or  my  personal  appearance,  or  my  natural  shyness 
or  youth.  It  was  aroused  b}^  the  fact  that  I  was  known  as 
"  the  member  who  had  paid  his  subscription  ! " 

This  fact  being  noised  abroad,  I  found  it  an  easy  matter 
to  get  elected  to  another  and  a  better  Bohemian  Club,  having 
beautiful  premises  on  the  Adelphi  ^J'errace — a  Club  which  has 
since  gone  through  many  vicissitudes,  but  I  think  still  exists  in 
a  small  way.  At  the  time  I  mention  it  was  much  what  the 
Savage  Club  is  now  ;  in  fact,  was  located  in  the  s;une  Terrace. 
Its  smoking  concerts,  too,  were  its  great  attractions,  and  on  one 

D  2 


From  a  Photo. hij]       AGE    20.        UV.&  D.Downey. 


36 


COXFESSIOXS  OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


of  these  evenings  I  i)l;iyed  a  part  wortli  reciting,  if  only  to 
illustrate  how  difficult  it  is  for  some  minds  to  understand 
a  joke. 

A  well-known  literary  man  called  to  see  me.  On  a  table  in 
my  studio  lay  a  "make-np"  box — used  by  actors  preparing 
their  faces  for  the  footlights — a  bald  head  with  fringe  of  light 
hair,  large  fair  moustache,  wig  paste,  a  suit  of  clothes  too  large 
for  me,  and  other  trifles.  My  visitor's  curiosity  was  aroused. 
Taking  up  my  "  properties,"  he  asked  me  what  they  were  for. 
I  explained  to  him  a  huge  joke  had  been  arranged  as  a  surprise 
at  the  Club  smoking  concert  to  take  place  that  very  evening,  in 

which  I  was  to  play  a  part  with 
a  well-known  and  highly-popular 
member — the  funny  man  of  the 
Club,    and   an    eccentric-looking 
one  to  boot.     He  had  conceived 
the   idea  to  make  me  up   as   a 
double  of  himself.     We  were  the 
same  height,  but  otherwise  we  in 
no    way   resembled    each    other. 
He  was  stout,    I  was  thin ;    he 
prematurely  bald,    I    enjoyed   a 
superabundance  of  auburn  locks  ; 
but  he  had  very  marked  characteristics,  and  wore  very  remark- 
able clothes.     He  was  also  very  clever  at  "  making-up."     The 
idea  was  to  test  his  talent  in  this  direction,  and  deceive  the 
whole  of  our  friends.       It  was  arranged  that  he  was  to  leave 
the  piano  after  singing  half  his  song,  and  T — up  to  that  moment 
concealed — was  to    come    forward    and    continue  it.      Tiiis   I 
explained  to  my  visitor,  who  expressed  his  belief  that  the  decep- 
tion was  impossible.    He  promised  to  keep  the  secret,  and  that 
evening  was  early  in  the  room  and  seated  close  to  the  piano. 
My  "  double  " — fortunately  for  me,  an  amateur — sang  the  first 
verses  of  one  of  his  well-known  songs,  but  in  the  middle  of  it 
complained  of  the  heat  of  the  room  (one  of  those  large  rooms  on 
the    first    floor    in   Adelphi  Terrace,    famous  for  the   Angelica 
Kaufmann  })aintings  on  the  ceiling),    and    opening  the  French 


A  SUCCESSFUL  "  MAKE-UP. 


BOHEMIAN  CONFESSIONS.  37 

window  close  to  the  piano  lie  went  out  on  to  the  balcony. 
There  I  was,  having  walked  along  the  balcony  from  the  next 
room.  So  successful  was  my  "  make-up  "  that  in  passing  through 
the  supper-room  to  get  on  to  the  balcony  some  of  the  members 
spoke  to  me  under  the  impression  I  was  the  other  member  ! 
The  hall-porter  had  handed  me  a  letter  intended  for  my 
"  double."  Of  course  I  imitated  his  walk,  his  mannerisms  at  the 
piano,  and  his  voice,  but  I  made  a  poor  attempt  to  sing.  This 
was  the  joke.  "  AVhat  w^as  the  matter  ?  "  "  Never  sang  like  that 
before,"  "  Evidently  thinks  it  is  funny  to  be  completely  out  of 
tune,"  "  Hullo,  what  is  this  ?  "  as  my  "  double  "  walked  through 
the  crowded  room  just  as  I  finished,  and  shook  hands  with  me  ! 

I  would  really  have  sung  the  song  better,  but  my  eye 
happened  to  catch  the  puzzled  stare  of  my  friend  the  literary 
visitor  in  the  front  row.  He  looked  angry  and  annoyed,  and 
before  my  "  double  "  came  up  to  me,  my  friend,  scowling  at  me, 
said,  "  Sir,  I  think  it  is  infernal  bad  taste  on  your  part  to  imitate 
my  friend  Harry  Furniss  ! '' 

Who  is  it  that  says  we  English  have  no  sense  of  humour "? 
My  "  double  "  in  the  preceding  tale  was  my  brother-in-law,  who 
as  a  boy  was  the  companion  of  Mr.  George  Grossmith,  and  in 
fact  once  appeared  as  an  amateur  at  German  Reed^s,  the  old 
Gallery  of  Illustration,  in  a  piece,  with  "  Gee  Gee"  as  his 
double,  entitled  "  Too  much  Alike." 

He  was  also  an  inveterate  and  clever  raconteur,  and  of  course 
occasionally  made  a  slip,  as  for  instance,  on  a  railway  journey 
to  Brighton  once,  when  he  found  himself  alone  with  a  stranger. 
The  stranger  in  conversation  happened  to  ask  my  relative 
casually  if  he  were  fond  of  travelling.  "  Travelling  ?  I  should 
rather  think  so,"  he  replied  airily,  and  imagining  he  was 
impressing  someone  who  was  "  something  in  the  City,"  he 
continued,  "  Yes,  sir,  I'm  a  pretty  experienced  traveller.  Been 
mostly  round  the  world  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  you  know, 
and  had  my  share  of  adventures,  I  can  tell  you  ! "  After  a  bit 
he  gained  more  confidence,  and  launched  into  details,  giving  the 
stranger  the  benefit  of  his  experience.  "  Why,  sir,  you  read  in 
books  that  hunters  of  big  game,  such  as  tigers,  watch  their  eyes. 


38 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATCRIST. 


Not  a  bit  of  it.  Wliat  you  have  got  to  do  is  to  watch  the  taily 
aud  tliat's  the  thing.  It  mesmerises  the  animal,  so  to  speak^ 
and  you  have  him  at  your  mercy,"  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 
On  arriving  at  tlie  hotel  he  found  his  travelling  companion  had 
just  signed  his  name  in  the  visitors'  book.  It  was  Richard 
Burton  I  My  brother-in-law  hastened  to  apologise  to  Sir 
Kichard  for  his  absurd  tales.  He  had  no  idea,  of  course,  U> 
whom  he  was  retailing  his  stiff  yarns.  Burton  laughed.  *'  My 
dear  sir,  not  a  word,  please.  I  was  more  entertained  than  I  caii 
tell  you.     You  really  might  have  travelled — you  lie  so  well !  " 

One  of  the  most  eccentric  men  I  ever  met,  and  certainly 
one  of  the  most  successful  journalists — a  vara  avis,  for  he  made 

a  fortune  in  Fleet  Street,  and 
retired  to  live  in  a  castle  in  the 
country — was  a  man  whose  name, 
although  a  very  singular  one, 
remains  absolutely  unknown  even 
to  members  of  the  Fourth  Estate. 
He  was  a  clever,  hard-working 
journalist ;  every  line  he  wrote — 
and  he  was  always  writing — was 
printed  and  well-paid  for,  but 
he  never  signed  an  article,  whilst  others,  journalists,  specialists, 
poets,  essayists — logroUers  of  high  degree — see  their  name  often 
enough,  are  "  celebrities,"  "  men  of  the  time,"  feted  and 
written  about,  but  eventually  retire  on  the  Civil  List.  Eccen- 
tricity is  the  breath  of  their  nostrils,  their  very  existence  depends 
upon  it,  publicity  is  essential.  My  friend's  eccentricity  was  for 
his  own  pleasure.  He  lived  in  a  frugal — some  might  think  in  a 
miserly  way — in  two  rooms  in  one  of  the  Inns  of  Court.  Perhaps 
I  shall  1)0  more  correct  if  I  say  he  existed  in  one.  A  loaf  of  bread 
and  half  a  pint  of  milk  was  his  daily  fare.  The  room  he  slept 
in  he  worked  in.  Tlie  other  was  empty,  save  for  bundles  of 
dusty  old  iiewspa})ers  containing  articles  from  his  ever  active 
brain.  "  I  keep  this  room,"  said  he,  "  for  times  when  I  am  over- 
wrouglit.  Then  I  shut  myself  up  in  it,  and  roar  !  When  by 
this  process  I  ha^'e  blown  away  my  mental  cobwebs,  my  brain 


TWO   TRAVELLERS. 


BO  HE  MI  AX   COXFESSIOXS.  39 

regains  its  pristine  energy,  and  I  go  back  to  my  study  calm  and 
collected,  having  done  no  one  any  harm,  and  myself  a  lot  of 
good."  I  have  dined  at  his  Club  with  him  in  the  most  luxurious 
fnshion,  quite  regardless  of  expense.  He  was  a  capital  host,  but, 
like  the  magazines  he  wrote  for,  he  only  appeared  replete  once 
a  month.  His  Press  work  he  looked  upon  as  mere  bread  and 
milk.  His  work  was  excellent,  journalism  which  editors  term 
"  safe,"  neither  too  brilliant  nor  too  dull,  certainly  having  no 
trace  whatever  of  eccentricity. 

I  may  here  offer  an  opinion,  and  make  a  suggestion  to  young 
journalists,  and  that  is — safe,  steady,  dull  mediocrity  is  what 
pays  in  the  long  run ;  to  attempt  to  be  brilliant  when  not  a 
genius  is  fatal.  To  have  the  genius,  brilliancy,  pluck,  and  success 
means  tremendous  prosperity  and  favour  for  a  time,  but  the 
editors  and  the  public  tire  of  your  cleverness.  You  are  too  much 
in  evidence.  It  is  safer  from  a  mere  business  standpoint  to  be 
the  steady,  stapid  tortoise  than  the  brilliant  hare.  The  man  or 
woman  who  writes  a  carefully  thought-out  essay  is  flattered, 
and  quoted,  and  talked  about :  for  that  article  the  writer  may 
possibly  receive  as  many  sovereigns  as  the  writer  of  a  newspaper 
article  receives  shillings;  but  the  shillings  come  every  day,  and 
the  sovereioiis  once  a  month.  It  is  wiser  in  the  lone^  run  to  be 
satisfied  with  a  loaf  and  milk  once  a  day  than  with  a  dinner  at  a 
Club  every  fonr  weeks. 

If  in  the  old  days  the  Bohemian  scribbler  was  not  in  Society, 
he  could  at  least  imaoine  himself  there.  There  was  nothinsc  to 
prevent  his  speaking  of  a  member  of  the  aristocracy  as  "  one  of 
us"  with  far  less  em barrassment  and  with  as  much  truth  as  he 
could  nowadays  when  he  is  invited — but  still  as  the  oil  that 
never  will  mix  with  water.  Except  in  imagination — an  imagina- 
tion such  as  I  recollect  a  well-known  figure  in  literary  Bohemia 
had  when  I  knew  it  well,  a  writer  of  stories  for  the  popular 
papers  :  Society  stories,  in  which  a  Duke  ran  away  with  a 
governess,  or  a  Duchess  eloped  with  an  artist,  each  weekly 
instalment  winding  up  with  a  sensational  event,  so  as  to  carry 
forward  the  interest  of  the  reader.  This  writer — quite  excellent 
in  his  way — a  thorough  Bohemian,  knowing  nothing  about  the 


40 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


Society  he  wrote  about,  had  tlie  power  of  making  liiinself,  and 
sometimes  fresli  acquaintances,  believe  tJiat  he  played  in  real 
life  a  i)art  in  the  story  he  was  writing.  He  did  not  refer  to  the 
experiences  as  related  by  hitn  as  incidents  in  his  story,  but  as 
actual  events  of  the  day. 

"  Brandy  and  soda  ?  Thanks.  My  dear  fellow,  I  feel  a 
perfect  wreck,  shaken  to  pieces.  I  had  an  experience  to-day  I 
shall  never  forget.     I  have  just  arrived  from  Devonshire ;  ran 

down  by  a  night  train  to  look  ;it  a 
hunter  Lord  Briarrose  wanted  to  sell 
me.  Bob — that  is  Briarrose — and  I 
travelled  too^ether.  He  is  jroins:  to 
be  married,  you  know ;  heiress ; 
great  beauty — neighbour — rolling  in 
wealth.  I  stopped  at  the  Castle  last 
night,  and  before  Bob  was  up  I  was 
on  the  thorou£i!;hbred  and  well  over 
the  country,  returning  about  eleven 
along  the  top  of  the  cliffs.  To  my 
horror,  I  saw  a  carriage  and  pair 
chargino;  down  a  road  whieli  at  one 
time  continued  a  lonff  distance 
skirting  the  cliffs.  Clitfs  had  fallen ; 
road  cut  off;  unprotected;  drop 
down  (:liff  eight  hundred  feet  on  to 
pointed  rocks  and  deep  sea.  There 
was  nothing  between  the  runaway 
horses  and  the  cliff,  except  a  storm-broken  solitary  tree  with  one 
branch  curved  over  the  road.  When  the  horses  bolted,  the  groom 
fell  off.  There  was  only  a  lady  in  the  carriage,  powerless  to  stop 
the  frightened  steeds  dashing  on  to  death.  As  she  a2:>proached  I 
was  electrified.  Something  told  me  she  was  A^oh'fi  Jiancee.  A 
moment  and  I  Avas  charging  the  hunter  under  tluit  tree.  Jumping 
up  out  of  the  saddle,  1  clasped  the  solitary  branch  with  both 
hands,  and  turning  as  an  acroljat  would  on  a  trapeze,  I  hung  by 
my  legs,  hands  downwards,  calling  to  the  lady  to  clasp  them. 
The  fierv  steeds  and  the  oscillatino-  caniaoc  dashed  under  me  — 


"  THE   DUKE   OF   BROADACRES." 


BOHEMIAN  CONFESSIOXS. 


41 


©Btutoap,  3otj  Janimtp,  1886. 


our  hands  met.  With  a  superhuman  effort  I  raised  the  fainting 
fairy  form  out  of  the  vehicle  as  it  passed  like  a  whirlwind.  The 
next  moment  horses  and  carriage  Avere  being  dashed  to  pieces 
on  the  rocks  below.  Under  our  united  weight  the  branch  of 
the  tree  broke,  and  we  fell  unhurt  on  the  moss-covered  path. 
When  the  eyes  of  the  fair  lady  opened  to  gaze  upon  her  deliverer, 
I  started  as  if  shot.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet.  'Eeginald!'  she  cried. 
'  Is  it  you  ? ' 

"  She  was  my  first  love.  We 
had  not  seen  each  other  for  years! 
Thanks.  I'Jl  have  some  more  brandy. 
Hot  this  time,  with  some  sugar, 
please." 


The  followino-  week  The  London 
Library  appeared.  I  bought  it,  and 
read  "  The  Duke's  Oak,"  all  about 
Lord  Briarrose  and  Lady  Bettj^ 
Buttercup  and  the  runaway  horses. 
The  tree  with  the  one  branch  gave 
the  title  to  the  story,  and  the  Dashing- 
Duke  of  Broadacres  was  the  aristo- 
cratic acrobat — my  friend  the  author! 

The  Savaoe  Club  is  a  remnant  of 
Bohemian  London.  It  was  started 
at  a  period  when  art,  literature,  and 
the  drama  were  at  their  lowest  ebb — 
in  the  "good  old  days'"  when  artists 
wore  seedy  velveteen  coats,  smoked  clays,  and  generally  had 
their  works  of  art  exhibited  in  pawnbrokers'  windows ;  when 
journalists  were  paid  at  the  same  rate  and  received  the  same 
treatment  as  office-boys  ;  and  when  actors  commanded  as  many 
shillings  a  week  as  they  do  pounds  at  present.  TJiis  typical 
trio  now  exists  only  in  the  imagination  of  the  lady  novelist. 
When  first  the  little  band  of  Savages  met  they  smoked  their 
calumets  over  a  public-house  in  the  vicinity  of  Drury  Lane, 
in   a  room  Avith   a  sanded  floor ;  a  chop  and  a  pint  of  ale  was 


FROM   A    SKETCH   BY   HERBERT 
JOHNSON. 


42 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


their  fare,  and  good-fellowship  atoned  for  lack  of  funds.  The 
Brothers  Broiigh,  Andrew  Halliday,  Tom  Robertson,  and  other 
clever  men  were  the  original  Savages,  and  the  latter  in  one  of  his 
charming  pieces  made  capital  out  of  an  incident  at  the  Club. 
One  member  asks  another  for  a  few  shillings.  "Very  sorry, 
old  chap,  [  haven't  got  it,  but  I'll  ask  Smith."  Smith  replies, 
'•Not  a  cent  myself,  but  I'll  ask  Brown."  Brown  asks  Robinson, 
and  so  on  until  a  Croesus  is  found  with  five  shillino;s  in  his 
])0cket,  which  he  is  only  too  willing   to  lend.     But  this  true 

Bohemianism  is  as  dead  as  Queen 
Anne,  and  the  Savages  now  live  merely 
on  the  traditions  of  the  past.  His 
Majesty  the  King,  when  Prince  of 
Wales,  was  a  member  of  the  Club,  and 
an  Earl  takes  the  chair  and  entertains 
my  Lord  Mayor  with  his  flunkeys 
and  all.  The  Club  is  now  as  much 
advertised  as  the  Imperial  Institute, 
but  the  true  old  flavour  is  no 
more.  No  doubt  some  excellent  men 
and  good  fellows  are  still  in  tlie 
Savaofc  wisjwam.  Some  Bohemians — 
a  s]:)rinkling  of  those  Micawbers, 
"waiting  for  something  to  turn  up" 
—  keep  np  its  reputation,  but  in 
reality  it  is  only  Savage  now  in  name. 
I  was  not  thirty  when  I  ceased  to  be  a  member,  I  had  been 
on  the  committee,  and  had  taken  an  active  part  in  matters 
concerning  it,  until  it  changed  its  character  and  lost  its  true 
Bohemian  individuality,  and  being  a  member  of  the  Garrick 
Ckib,  I  found  matured  in  it  the  element  the  Savage  endeavoured 
at  that  time  to  emulate.  Although  I  am  still  in  my  forties, 
few  of  those  with  whom  I  smoked  the  calumet  of  peace  round 
the  camp  fire  at  a  great  }>ow-wow  in  the  wigwam  of  the  excellent 
Savages,  alas!   remain. 

The  olil  (iivcian   Theatre  in   the  City  Road  was   the  nursery 
of  mniiy  members  of  tlie   theatrical  jirofession,  and  authors  too. 


THE    EARL   OF   DUXIIAVEX    AS 
A    SAVAGE. 


BOHEMIAN  CONFESSIONS. 


43 


Two  well-known   members  of  tlie    Savage  Club,   Menitt  and 

Pettitt,   were  writers  of  the  common   stuff  necessary  for   the 

melodramas  of  the  kind  connected  with 

their  names.     Merritt  would  have  made 

an   equal  fortune   if    exhibited   as   the 

original  fat  bov  in  "Pickwick,"  or  as  a 

prize  baby  at  a  show.     I  suppose    my 

readers  are  aware  that  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  be  a  bal)y  in  order  to  be  exhibited 

as  one,  for  I  recollect,  in  my  Bohemian 

days,  going  down  to  Woolwich  Gardens 

when  the  famous  William  Holland  was 

manager    of     them,    and     accidentally 

strolling  into    a  tent  outside  of  which 

was  a  placard,   "  The  Largest  Baby  in 

the  World  I  6d."     I  was  not  expected, 

— and  the  "Baby"  was  walking  about 

in  his  baby-clothes,  Avith  little  pink  bows 

on   his    shoulders,    smoking   a   horrible 

black    clay  pipe.      He  was   the   dwarf 

policeman 
in  Holland's 

pantomime  in  the  winter  -  time  I 
Merritt  would  have  made  a  capital 
prize  baby.  He  was  tall,  very  stout, 
and  possessed  of  a  perfectly  hairless, 
baby's  face  and  a  squeaky  little 
voice,  I  shall  never  forget  a  prize 
remark  this  transpontine  author 
made  in  the  Savage  Club,  when  an 
editor  rushed  in  and  said,  "  Have 
you  heard  the  news  ?  Carlyle  is 
dead  I"  Merritt  rose,  and  putting 
his  hand  on  his  chest,  scjueakcd  out, 
"  Another  gap  in  our  ranks  I  " 
A  peculiar  figure  in  Bohemia  in  those  old  days  was  "J."  Pope, 

known  as  '•' Jope,"  brother  of  the  late  celebrated  K.C,     Jo  was 


ANOTHER   GAP    IN   OUR 
RANKS," 


"JOPE," 


44 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


neaily  as  large  as  his  brother,  the  well-known  legal  luminary, 
and  Paul  ]\Ierritt  rolled  into  one,  and  wore  his  black  wide- 
awake on  the  back  of  his  pleasing,  intelligent  head.  I  saw  him 
one  sultry  autumn  evening  leaning  against  a  lamp-post  in 
Chancery  Lane  to  take  breath. 

"  Hullo,   Pope,  where  are  you  going  ? " 
"  My  dear  boy,  let  me  lean  on  you  a  minute.      I'm  going 
up  to  the  Birkbeck — to  lecture — to  lecture 
on  '  Air,  and  How  We  Breathe !  '  " 

As  a  contrast  to  the  popular  Doctor  was 
a  wit  more  popularly  known,  H.  J.  Byron 
— as  thin  as  the  proverbial  lamp-post.  Of 
course  the  stories  about  Byron  would  fill  a 
volume,  but  there  is  one  that  is  always 
worth  repeating,  and  that  is  his  reply  to  a 
vulgar  and  obtrusive  stransfer  who  met  him 
at  Plymouth,  and  said  to  him,  "Mr.  Byron, 
I've  'ad  a  walk  /iall  round  the  'Oe." 

"Yes,  old  chap,  and  the  next  time  you 
have  a  walk  I  advise  you  to  walk  all  round 
the  H." 

In  those  merrv  gatherings  I  recall  the 
familiar  features  of  true  Bohemians,  when 
Bohemianism  was  at  its  best — not  the  orna- 
mental names  of  those  one  finds  mentioned 
in  all  reports  of  the  famous  gatherings, 
but  of  the  members  who  really  used  and 
made  the  Club.  Few  of  the  outside  public 
recollect,  for  instance,  the  name  of  Arthur  Mathieson,  who  wrote 
and  sang  that  pathetic  ballad,  "The  liittle  Hero"  ;  who  also  was 
an  actor  and  writer  of  ability, — in  fact;,  he  was  what  is  fatal  tc 
men  of  his  class — a  veritable  Crichton.  Being  in  appearance  not 
unlike  Sir  Henry  Irving,  he  was  engaged  by  our  leading  actor 
to  play  his  double  in  "  The  Corsican  Brothers,"  and  made  up 
so  like  his  chief  that  no  one  could  possibly  tell  the  difference 
l)ctween  the  two.  ( )ne  evening  during  the  run  of  the  piece  an 
old  Irishwoman  who  was  duster  of  the  theatre,  and  with  whom 


H.   J.    BYRON. 


BOHEMIAN  CONFESSIONS.  45 

the  genial  double  of  Sir  Henry  often  had  a  friendly  word, 
approached  as  she  thought  the  familiar  M.,  and  in  a  rather 
frivolous  mood  innocently  tickled  the  actor  under  the  chin 
with  her  dusting-broom. 

*'  My  good  woman,  what  do  you  mean  ? " 

The  poor  Irishwoman  dropped  on  her  knees,  clasped  her 
hands  and  said,  "  The  Saints  protect  me !  it's  the  Masther 
himself — I'm  kilt  entoirely." 

The  "Masther,"  however,  probably  enjoyed    the  humour  of 
it.     Sir  Heiny,   like  his  dear  old  friend  Mr.  J.   L.   Toole,  has 
found  a    relief  in    occasional  harmless 
fun,     Toole,  however,  was  irrepressible. 

I  was  one  day  walking  with  him  in 
Leeds  (when  he  was  appearing  in  the 
evening  on  the  stage,  and  I  on  the 
platform).  A  street  hawker  proffered 
the  comedian  a  metal  pencil-case  for 
the  sum  of  a  halfpenny.  Toole  made 
this  valnal)le  purchase.  As  soon  as  I 
left  the  platform  that  night,  I  found  a 
note  for  me,  inviting  me  to  the  theatre 
directly  after  the  performance.     Toole 

J  i-  A   PRESENTATION. 

came  back  on  to  the  stage,  and  making 

me  an  elaborate  and  complimentary  speech,  referring  to  me  as 
"a  brother  artist  in  another  sphere,"  etc.,  etc.,  presented  me 
with  the  pencil !  I  made  an  appropriate  reply,  and  we  went 
to  supper. 

The  following  paragraph  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Toole  appeared 
in  the  Press  the  next  day  in  London  as  well  as  the  provinces : 

"  Brother  artists,  even  when  working  in  different  grooves, 
do  not  lack  appreciation  of  each  other's  woi-k.  After  Mr. 
Harry  Furniss's  lecture  in  Leeds  the  other  night,  he  and 
Mr.  Toole  foregathered ;  and  the  popular  and  genial  actor 
presented  the  '  comedian  of  the  pencil '  with,  a  very  neat  and 
handsome  pencil-case,  just  adapted  for  the  jotting  down,  wherever 
duty  takes  him,  of  those  graphic  sketches  with  which  the 
caricaturist  amuses  us  w^ek  by  week." 


46  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

I  must  confess  I  am  sometimes  guilty  of  mild  practical  jokes, 
but  I  am  always  careful  to  select  reciprocative  and  kindred 
spirits — with  such  a  spirit  of  practical  joking  as  J.  L,  Toole,  for 
instance.  He  and  I  have  had  many  a  joke  at  each  other's 
expense.  It  so  happened  that  when  he  was  producing  the  great 
success,  "  The  House  l)oat,"  he  wintered  at  Hastings,  where  I 
liad  a  house  for  the  season,  and  we  saw  a  great  deal  of  each 
other.  Toole  was  always  what  is  called  a  l)ad  study — that  is,  it 
was  with  great  difficulty  and  pain  he  learnt  his  parts.  On  this 
occasion  the  time  was  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  for  the  produc- 
tion ;  he  was  getting  more  and  more  nervous  about  his  new  part, 
and  I  received  a  visit  from  his  friend  the  late  Edmund  Routledge, 
iiskiug  me  to  protect  "Johnny"  from  his  friends— in  other 
words,  to  keep  his  whereabouts  dark,  as  he  had  to  study.  Toole 
had  had  one  or  two  little  practical  jokes  with  me,  which  I  owed 
him  for,  so  having  to  rush  up  to  town,  I  had  the  following  letter 
written  to  him  : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Toole, —  [  suppose  you  recollect  your  old 
friends  in  Smoketown  when  you  performed  one  night  at  our 
Hall  and  did  us  the  honour  of  stopping  at  our  house  over 
Sunday.  You  then  kindly  asked  us  all  to  stop  with  you  when 
we  went  to  Loudon — a  })romise  we  have  treasured  ever  since. 
We  called  at  Maida  Vale  yesterday,  but  finding  you  were  at 
Hastings  I  write  now  to  say  that  we  are  on  our  way.  Besides 
mvself  I  am  bringjino-  dear  Aunt  Jane  you  will  remember — 
now  unfortunately  a  confirmed  invalid — and  ray  boy  Tom  who 
has  got  a  bad  leg,  and  Uncle  William  and  his  three  daughters, 
and  my  dear  Sue,  who,  I.  am  sorry  to  say,  is  still  suffering,  but  I 
think  a  week  at  Hastings  will  do  us  all  a  world  of  good — 
particularly  to  have  you  to  amuse  us  all  the  time. 

"  Yours  very  truly," 

And  a  signature  was  attached  which  I  could  not  myself  read. 

The  next  day  in  London  a  hansom  pulled  up  close  to  where 
I  was  walking,  and  a  fj'icnd  of  Toole's  jumped  out,  and,  seizing 
mv  liand,  he  said,  "I  say,  Furniss.  you  travel  ahout  a  lor, 
lecturiiiu'  and  all  that  kind  of  thiuu'    -d"  ^■<'U  know  Smoketown  '  ' 


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BOHEMIAN   CONFESSIONS  49 

"  Smoketown  !  "  I  said,  "  Smoketown  !  "  (Truth  to  tell,  at  the 
moment  I  had  quite  forgotten  all  about  my  letter  to  Toole  ;  then 
it  dawned  upon  me.)  "  Oh,  yes — well,"  I  said  ;  "  I  had  one 
night  there,  and  some  frightful  friends  of  Toole's  bored  my  life 
out.  He  had  invited  them,  I  believe,  to  stop  with  him  in 
London,  and  they " 

"  Just  the  people  I  want.     What's  their  name  ?  " 

"  I  forget  that  entirely." 

"  Can  you  read  this  ?"  he  said,  producing  my  letter. 

"  No,"  I  said  ;  "  1  can't  read  that  signature." 

"  Do  you  know  where  they  are  likely  to  put  up  in  town  ? " 

"  Not  the  slightest  idea." 

"  I've  tried  every  hotel  in  London." 

"  Temperance'? "  I  asked. 

"  No,  not  one.  Happy  thought  I — of  course  that  is  where 
they'll  be." 

"Try  them  all,"  I  said,  as  I  waved  my  hand.  And  off  the 
cab  rushed  to  visit  the  various  temperance  hotels  in  London. 

The  next  day  I  returned  to  Hastings,  and  went  straight  to 
Mr.  Toole's  hotel.  Getting  the  hall  porter  into  my  confidence, 
he  sent  up  a  message  to  Mr.  Toole  that  a  gentleman  with  a  large 
family  had  arrived  to  see  him ;  and  the  porter  and  I  made  the 
noise  of  ten  up  the  stairs,  and  eventually  the  gentleman  and. 
family  were  announced  at  Toole's  door.  I  shall  never  forget 
poor  Toole,  standing  in  an  attitude  so  familiar  to  the  British 
public,  with  his  eye-glass  in  his  hand  and  his  eyes  cast  on  the 
ground — he  was  afraid  to  raise  them.  As  soon  as  he  did, 
however,  his  other  hand  caught  the  first  book  that  was  handy, 
and  it  was  flung  at  my  head. 

Bohemianism,  when  I  arrived  in  London,  was  emigrating  from 
the  tavern  of  sanded  floors  and  clay  pipes  into  Clubland.  Artists, 
authors,  actors,  and  journalists  were  starting  clubs  of  their  own, 
simply  to  continue  tlie  same  pot-house  life  without  restraint ;  in 
place  of  turning  the  public-house  into  a  club,  they  turned  the 
club  into  a  public-house.  If  journalists  in  Grub  Street  were  at 
their  worst  in  those  days,  artists  were  at  their  best.  The  great 
boom  in  trade  which  followed  the  Franco-German  War  produced 

C. — VOL.    I.  E 


50 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


^^-^'XBi^ 


a  Avave  of  extraordinary  prosperity,  which  landed  many  a  tramp 
struggling  in  troubled  waters  safely  on  the  beach  of  fortune. 
Working  men  in  the  North  were  drinking  champagne ;  some  of 
them  rose  to  be  masters  and  millionaires.  They  tired  of  drink- 
ing champagne,  they  could  not  play  the  pianos  they  had  bought, 
or  enjoy  the  mansions  they  had  built ;  but  they  could  rival 
each  other  in  covering  their  walls  with  pictures,  so  the  poorest 
"  pot-boiler  "  found  a  ready  sale.  The  most  indifferent  daubs 
were  sold  as  quickly  as  they  could  be  framed.  Artists  then 
built  their  mansions,  drank   champagne,  and  played  on  their 

grand  pianos.      When   I, 
))  still  in  my  teens,  first  met 

these  good  fellows,  I  might 
have  been  tempted,  seeing 
what  wretched  work  satis- 
fied the  picture-dealer,  to 
abandon  black  and  white 
for  colour;  but  already  the 
boom  was  over.  Artists, 
like  their  patrons,  had 
found  out  their  mistake. 
They  had  either  to  let  or 
sell  their  costly  houses,  and 
have,  with  few  exceptions, 
little  to  show  now  for  those  wonderful  days  of  prosperity  in  the  early 
seventies — which  they  still  talk  over  in  their  clubs  in  Bohemia. 
The  few  exceptions  are  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  But  the 
best  of  artists  have  never  seen  such  a  boom  in  art  as  that  I  saw 
in  my  early  days  in  London.  It  cannot  be  denied  that,  from  a 
fashionable  point  of  view,  picture  shows  are  going  down.  Artists 
have  had  to  stand  on  one  side  as  popular  Society  favourites  ;  the 
actors  have  taken  their  place.  One  has  only  to  visit  the  studios 
on  "  Show  Sundays  "  to  see  what  a  falling  off  there  is.  "  Show 
Sunday  "  was,  some  years  ago,  one  of  the  events  of  the  year. 
From  Kensington  to  St.  John's  Wood,  and  up  to  Hampstead, 
the  studios  of  the  miglity  attracted  hosts  of  fashionable  people  to 
these  annual  o-atherinos. 


BOHEMIAN  CONFESSIONS.  51 

A  familiar  figure  at  these  for  many  years  was  the  genial  Sir 
Spencer  Wells,  the  well-known  surgeon.  He  lived  monarch  of 
all  he  surveyed  at  Golder's  Hill,  Hampstead,  and  many  a  morning 
I  met  him  when  riding,  and  we  jogged  into  town  together.  He 
was  a  capital  raconteur,  a  happy  wit,  and  told  one  incident  I 
always  recall  to  mind  as  I  pass  a  house  on  the  top  of  Fitzjohn's 
Avenue,  where  a  few  years  ago  lived,  painted  and  '*  received  " 
that  Wilson  Barrett  of  the  brush,  Edwin  Long,  K.A.,  a  hard- 
working, self-made  artist  who  amassed  a  fortune  by  successfully 
gauging  the  taste  of  the  large  middle-class  English  public  in 
mixing  religion  with  voluptuous  melodrama.  On  the  annual 
"Show   Sunday'* 


no     studio     was 

more  popular  than 

LonQ:'s.        His 

subjects    perhaps 

had  something  to 

do  with  it.    They 

were   in   keeping 

with  the  Sabbath. 

The  work  too  was 

as  smooth  and  as 

highly  finished  as 

the  most  orthodox 

sermon.     Ars  longa  est.     Yes,  said  some  cynic,  but  art  is  not 

Long.      But  anyway  Long's  art  was  commercially  successful, 

and  he  was  what  is  known  as  "a  good  business  man." 

As  haberdashers  in  the  days  of  crude  advertising  used  to  place 
men  in  costume  at  the  shop  door — a  fireman  when  they  were 
selling  off  a  damaged  salvage  stock,  or  a  sailor  or,  if  a  very 
enterprising  tradesman,  a  diver,  helmet  and  all,  when  selling 
off"  oroods  damaoed  from  a  wreck — so  did  this  Academician,  when 
exhibiting  Biblical  subjects  on  "Show  Sunday,"  engage  a  Nubian 
model  to  stand  at  the  door  of  his  shop.  This  man  had  also  to 
announce  the  names  of  the  guests,  and  when  the  small,  spectacled, 
simple  man  with  the  large  smile  gave  his  name.  Sir  Spencer  Wells, 
the  model  pulled  himself  up  to  his  full  height  and  in  his  best 

E  2 


52  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

English  proudly  and  loudly  announced  to  the  crowd  in  the 
studio — 

"  The  Prince  of  Wales  ! " 

The  effect  was  magical :  all  fell  in  line,  ladies  curtseyed,  men 
bowed,  when  the  Prince  of  Hampstead  Heath  entered.  The 
artist  looked  as  black  as  his  model,  and  the  visitors  lauojhed. 

At  the  other  end  of  Fitzjohn's  Avenue  once  lived  that  ever 
popular  Academician,  the  late  Mr.  John  Pettie.  Mr.  Pettie  was 
a  vigorous  draughtsman  and  a  beautiful  colourist,  and  many  of 
his  portraits  are  very  fine.  He  seemed  to  revel  in  painting  a 
red  coat — an  object  to  many  painters  as  maddening  as  it  is 
to  the  infuriated  bull.  On  one  "Show  Sunday"  before  the 
sending-in  day  of  the  Royal  Academy,  at  which  he  exhibited,  I 
recollect  admiring  a  poi-trait  of  Mr.  Lamb,  the  celebrated  golfer, 
in  his  red  coat,  when  the  original  of  the  portrait  came  into  the 
studio.  Not  feeling  very  well,  Mr.  Pettie  had  to  avoid  the 
crowd  of  his  admirers  seeing  him.  There  were  a  few  excep- 
tions, of  which  I  was  one.  I  had  just  left  him  when  I  saw 
Mr.  Ijamb  before  his  picture.  In  this  portrait  the  "  bulger '' 
golf  club — which  Mr.  Lamb,  I  believe,  invented,  to  the  delight 
of  the  golfing  world — is  introduced.  I  ran  back  to  Mr.  Pettie 
and  told  him  that  there  was  a  stupid  man  in  the  studio  wanting 
to  know  why  artists  always  draw  golf  clubs  wrongly ;  that  as  a 
Scotchman  he  must  protest  against  such  a  club,  which  was  out 
of  shape,  like  a  club  foot.  "Tell  him,  mon,  it's  a  bulger— 
Lamb's  invention !  "  I  returned.  "  He  wants  to  know  who 
Mr.  Lamb  is,  and  what  is  a  bulger  ? — perhaps  it's  a  new  kind  of 
hunting-crop  and  not  a  golf  club  at  all  ?  "  In  rushed  Mr.  Pettie, 
like  an  enraged  lion,  to  slay  the  ignorant  visitor,  but  in  reality 
to  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Lamb  and  explain  my  childish  joke. 

Leaving  Pettie,  I  called  at  a  studio  near  Hampstead  occupied  by 
a  very  clever  Irish  artist,  who  was  very  much  depressed  when  I 
entered.  Gazing  in  bewilderment  at  his  picture  for  the  Academy, 
representing  Milton  with  his  danghters  in  his  garden  at  Chalfont 
St.  Gih'S,  he  said — 

"  Purniss,  Pm  in  an  awful  state  entoirely  over  this  picture. 
( )ne  of  those  critic  fellows  has  been  in  here,  and  he  tells  me  this 


BOHEMIAN  CONFESSIONS.  53 

picture  won't  do  at  all  at  all.  I've  painted  in  Milton's  garden 
as  I've  seen  it,  but  the  critic  tells  me  that  these  are  all  modern 
flowers  and  weren't  known  in  the  country  in  the  poet's  time. 
Now,  what  on  earth  am  Oi  to  do  ? " 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  about  those  critics,"  I  said.  "  They  know 
nothing.  Milton  was  blind,  don't  you  know,  so  how  could  he 
tell  whether  the  flowers  were  correct  or  not  ?  " 

"  Begorrah,  Furniss,  you're  right.  Oi  never  thought  of  that. 
It's  just  like  those  ignorant  critic  chaps  to  upset  a  fellow  in 
this  wav." 


CHAPTER  III. 

MY    CONFESSIONS    AS    A    SPPX'IAL    ARTIST. 


DISTRESS  IN  THE  BLACK  COUNTRY.     Arfin//  tts  Special  Artist  for 
The  Uhistrafcd  London  Nm'S. 

The  Light  Brigade — Miss  Thompson  (Lady  Butler) — Slumming — The 
Boat  Eace — Kealism — A  Phantasmagoria — Orlando  and  the  Caitiff — - 
Fancy  Dress  Balls — Lewis  Wingfield^ — Cinderella — A  Model — AH 
Night  Sitting — An  Impromptu  Easel — "  Where  there's  a  Will  there's 
a  Way" — The  x\merican  Sunday  Papers — I  am  Deaf — The  Grill — ^The 
World's  Fair — Exaggeration — Personally  Conducted — The  Charnel 
House — 10,  Downing  Street  —  I  attend  a  Cabinet  Council  —  An 
Illustration  by  Mr.  Labouchere  —  The  Great  Lincolnshire  Trial  — 
Praying  without  Prejudice. 

8iR  William  Russell  and  1  were  called  upon  at  a  banquet  in 
the  City  to  respond  to  the  toast  of  the  Press.  Sir  William  made 
one  of  liis  characteristic,  graceful  little  speeches,  reminiscential 


■fv    ^ 


MY   CONFESSIOFS  AS  A    SPECIAL   ARTIST. 


57 


and  modest.  When  I  rose  I  was  for  a  moment  also  reminis- 
<3ential — but  not  modest.  "  My  Lord  Mayor,  Sheriffs,  and 
Masters  of  this  Worshipful  Company, — I  appreciate  the  appro- 
priateness in  coupling  my  name  with  that  of  Sir  William  Russell, 
for  both  of  us  have  made  a  noise  in  the  world  at  the  same  time 
— Dr.  Eussell  with  his  first  war  letters  to  the  Times,  and  I  in 


AS  SPECIAL  AT  THE  BALACLAVA  CELEBRATION. 

my  cradle,  for  I  came  into  this  troubled  world  while  others  in 
arms  were  making  a  noise  in  the  Crimea." 

Naturally  for  this  reason  I  have  always  taken  an  interest  in 
the  doings  of  that  time  ;  so  it  was  quite  con  amove  that  I  acted 
as  "special"  at  the  first  Balaclava  Celebration  Bancjuet  (1875), 
twenty  years  after  "  Billy "  Eussell's  first  war  letters  and  my 
first  birthday. 

The  roll-call  on  the  occasion  was  funny,  seeing  that  it 
was  that  of  the  "  Light  Brigade  " — some  were  "light"  and  many 
were  heavy — one    I   recollect  was  about  eighteen  stone.     The 


58  CONFESSIONS    OF  A   CARICATURIST. 

banquet  was  held  in  the  Alexandra  Palace,  Muswell  Hill.  The 
visitors,  except  the  military — past  or  present — were  shamefully 
treated.  We  had  to  stand  all  the  time  behind  the  chairs  and 
wearily  watch  a  scene  not  altogether  elevating  to  lookers-on. 
We  were  not  allowed  a  chair  to  sit  on,  nor  any  refreshment  of 
any  kind — not  even  if  we  paid  for  it ;  and  I  well  recollect  how 
hungry  I  was  when  I  returned  to  my  studio  after  a  tedious 
journey  at  1  in  the  morning,  having  had  nothing  to  eat  since 
1  of  the  previous  day.  Such  Red  Tape  w^as,  I  suppose,  to 
illustrate  the  disgraceful  arrangements  of  the  commissariat  in 
the  Crimea !  I  was  standing  close  to  Miss  Thompson  (Lady 
Butler),  who  had  just  become  famous  by  her  picture  "The  Roll 
Call."  She  was  making  notes,  and  possibly  intended  painting 
a  setpel  to  her  celebrated  picture.  She  was  exhausted  and  tired, 
and  no  doubt  too  disgusted  by  such  ungallant  conduct  on  the 
part  of  the  organisers  of  the  banquet  to  touch  the  subject.  Had 
she  painted  this  particular  roll-call  I  fear  many  of  the  figures 
would  have  had  to  be  drawn  out  of  the  perpendicular. 

Twenty  years  before  one  of  the  heroes  was,  possibly,  a 
better  and  a  wiser  man,  and  tackled  the  "  Rooshins "  with 
greater  dexterity  than  he  displayed  on  this  occasion  in 
managing  a  jelly.  He  had  waiters  to  right  of  him,  waiters  to- 
left  of  him,  and  waiters  behind  him,  but  that  jelly  defeated 
him,  although  he  charged  it  with  fork,  spoon,  and  finally  with 
fingers. 

From  a  very  early  age  it  was  naturally  my  ambition  to  be- 
introduced  to  Mr,  Punch,  but  this  was  not  to  be  just  yet,  and 
the  first  London  paper  for  which  I  drew  regularly  was  the 
lUustrated  Sporting  and  Dramatic  News,  which  was  started 
soon  after  I  arrived  in  London.  I  continued  to  work  for  it 
until  it  was  bought  by  the  proprietor  of  the  Illustrated  London 
News,  when  I  became  a  large  contributor  to  that  leading 
illustrated  paper. 

Most  of  my  work  for  the  lUustrated  London  News  consisted 
of  single  and  double  pages  of  character  sketches,  in  which  Eton 
and  Harrow  cricket  matches,  Oxford  and  Cambridge  boat  races^ 
tennis  meetings,  the  Lawn  at  Goodwood,  and  mauy  other  scenes 


MY   CONFESSIONS  AS   A    SPECIAL    ARTIST. 


59 


of  English  life  were  treated  pietorially ;  but  I  also  acted  some- 
times in  the  capacity  of  a  special  correspondent,  and  this  duty 
sometimes  took  me  into  places  far  from  pleasant. 

On  my  twenty-fourth  Christmas,  the  year  after  I  was  married, 
I  recollect  having  to  start  off  upon  such  a  mission  to  the  North 
of  England,  where,  owing  to  strikes  and  labour  disputes,  most 
distressing  scenes  were  taking  place.     Throwing  myself  into  the 


DISTRESS   IN   THE   NORTH. 

Page  {reduction),  "Illustrated  London  Neivs."     Repuhlishcd  hij  permission  of  the  proprietors. 


work,  1  thoroughly  ferreted  out  the  distress  which  prevailed, 
pursuing  my  investigations  into  the  very  garrets  of  the  poor 
starving  creatures  whose  privacy  I  thus  disturbed  at  the  entreaty 
and  under  the  escort  of  the  district  visitors  and  other  benevolent 
people,  whilst  the  criminal  classes  also  came  in  for  a  share  of 
my  observation,  which  in  this  case  was  conducted  under  the 
shelteriuoj  wino-  of  a  detective. 

I  cannot,   however,  say  that   my  energy  met  with   its  due 
reward,  for  such  was  the  realism  with  which  I  had  treated  the 


60  COXFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

subject  allotted  to  me  that  the  editor  and  proprietors  of  the 
Ilhistrated  Loridon  News  were  reluctant  to  shock  the  suscepti- 
bilities of  their  readers  by  presenting  them  with  such  scenes, 
and  I  had  to  substitute  for  them  sketches  of  soup  kitchens, 
committee  meetings  and  refuges.  That  the  editorial  decision 
was  not  a  sound  one  was  amply  proved  a  few  years  later,  when 
durinor  a  somewhat  similar  crisis  Mr.  G.  R.  Sims  and  the  late 
Mr.  Fred  Barnard  published  work  of  a  similar  breadth  and 
boldness  with  sio;nal  effect. 

Visiting  slums,  seeing  death  from  want  and  misery  on  all 
sides,  is  certainly  not  the  most  pleasant  way  of  spending  the 
festive  season.  In  company  with  detectives,  clergymen,  or  self- 
Facrificing  district  visitors,  you  may  swallow  the  pill  with  the 
silver  on  ;  but  try  it  single-handed,  and  it  is  a  very  different 
affair.  I  was  taken  for  some  demon  rent-collector  prowling 
about,  and  was  peered  at  through  broken  windows  and  doors, 
and  received  with  lano-uage  warm  enouoh  to  thaw  the  icicles. 
The  sketches  I  made  during  the  weeks  I  spent  in  the  haunts  of 
want  and  misery  would  have  made  a  startling  volume,  but  time 
and  money  were  thrown  away,  and  only  the  perfunctory  pictures 
were  published.  The  public  have  no  idea,  or  seldom  think,  of 
the  great  trouble  and  expense  incurred  in  faithfully  depicting 
everyday  scenes.  Still,  it  is  not  possible  for  a  "  special "  even 
to  see  everything,  or  to  be  in  two  places  simultaneously  ;  and 
consequently,  in  ordinary  pictorial  representations,  dummy 
figures  are  frequently  looked  upon  as  true  portraits.  One  boat 
race,  for  example,  is  very  much  like  another.  Some  years  ago 
I  executed  a  panoramic  series  of  sketches  of  the  University 
Kace  from  start  to  finish,  and  as  they  were  urgently  wanted,  the 
drawings  had  to  be  sent  in  the  same  day.  Early  in  the  morning, 
before  the  break  of  fast,  I  found  myself  at  Putney,  rowing  up 
to  Mortlake,  taking  notes  of  the  different  points  on  the  way — 
local  colour  throuoh  a  foo;.  Gettino-  home  before  the  Londoners 
started  for  the  scene,  I  was  at  work,  and  the  drawings — minus 
the  boats- — were  sent  in  shortly  after  the  news  of  the  race.  The 
figures  were  imaginary  and  uninqwrtant,  but  one  correspondent 
wrote  to  point  out  the  exact  spot  where  he  stood,  and  complained 


MY   CONFESSIONS  AS  A    SPECIAL   ARTIST. 


61 


of  my  leaving  out  the  black  band  on  his  white  hat,  and  placing 
him  too  near  a  pretty  girl,  adding  that  his  wife,  who  had  not 
been  present,  had  recognised  his  portrait. 

Yes,  I  must  confess,  one  has  often  to  draw  upon  the  imagina- 
tion even  in  serious  "realism."  Some  years  ago  I  went  with  a 
colleague  of  the  pen  to  illustrate  and  describe  the  dreadful 
scenes  which  were  said  to  take  place  in  St.  James's  Park,  where 
the  poor  people  were  seen  to  sleep  all  night  on  the  seats.  We 
arrived  about  2  a.m.  It  was  a  beautiful  moonliofht  nig-ht,  but 
though  we  walked  up  and  down  for  hours  not  a  soul  came  in 
sight.  My  companion  said,  "  It's  a  bad  business  ;  we  cannot  do 
anything  with  this."  I  replied,  "  We  must  not  go  away  without 
something  to  show  ;  now  if  you 
will  lie  down  I  will  make  a 
sketch  of  you,  and  then  I  will  lie 
down  and  you  can  describe  me." 
One  of  the  most   "  uncanny " 

had    as    a 

graphically 

late     Hon. 


REALISM 


experiences    I     ever 
"  special  "     I     find 
described     by     the 
Lewis    Wingfield,     who    accom- 
panied me  on  the  strange  mission. 

"  Winter  without.  Snow.  A  sea  of  billows  driftino-  across 
the  sky,  glittering,  frosted — a  symphony  in  metals — silver, 
aluminium,  lead — rendered  buoyant  for  the  nonce,  ethereal — as 
though  the  world  were  really  gone  Christmas  mad,  and,  having 
a  sudden  attack  of  topsy-turvydom  in  its  inside,  had  taken  to 
showering  its  treasures  about  the  firmament,  instead  of  keeping 
them  snugly  put  away  in  mines  below  ground.  A  sheet  of 
snow,  and  bitter  white  rain  driving  still.  A  huge  building 
looming  black,  its  many  eyes  staring  into  the  dark — lidless, 
bilious,  vacant.  This  is  a  hospital.  Or  is  it  a  factory,  disguised 
with  a  veneer  of  the  Puginesque  ?  Or  an  aesthetic  barrack  ? 
Or  an  artistic  workhouse  ?  Visible  yet,  under  falling  snow 
which  has  not  had  time  to  cover  them,  are  flower-beds,  shrub- 
plots,  meandering  walks.  Too  genteel  and  ambitious  for  the 
most    aesthetic    of   workhouses    or    advanced    of   hospitals,    we 


62 


COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


wonder  what  the  buikling  is ;  and  our  wonder  is  not  decreased 
by  seeing  a  postern  opened  in  a  huge  bhick  wall,  from  which  a 
handful  of  conspirators  creep  silently.  AVe  rub  our  eyes.  Arc 
we  dreaming  ?  Is  this,  or  is  it  not,  the  age  of  scientific  marvels, 
levelling  of  castes,  rampant  communism,  murder,  agrarian 
outrage,  sudden  massacre  ? — the  olla  podrida  which  we  are 
pleased  to  denominate  enlightenment  ?  That  first  black  figure 
is  James  the  Second.  Heavens  1  The  Jacobites  live  yet,  and 
will  join,  doubtless,  with  the  Fenians  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh,  and 

a  posse  comitatus  of  icono- 
clasts, to  upset  the  reign  of 
order,  and  add  a  thorn  to 
the  chaplet  of  our  hard- 
run  Premier.  James  the 
Second.  Not  a  doubt  of  it. 
There  he  is — periwig,  black 
velvet,  and  bugles.  Where, 
oh  where,  is  the  Great  Seal, 
with  which  he  played  ducks 
and  drakes  in  the  Thames  ? 
Yet  no.  This  is  no  Jacobite 
plot,  for  His  Majesty  is 
followed  by  no  troop  of  par- 
tisans on  tiptoe  in  hose 
and  doublet.  He  is  not 
seeking  to  win  his  own  again.  A  woodman  trudges  behind — 
we  recognise  him,  for  his  name's  Orlando  " — (Wingfield  himself, 
in  a  beautiful  costume,  which  he  had  made  two  years  previously 
when  playing  the  part  of  Orlando  in  a  production  of  "  As  You 
Like  It "  in  Manchester,  the  Calvert  Memorial  performance ; 
Miss  Helen  Fau('it  (Lady  Martin),  Rosalind  ;  Herman  Merivale, 
Touchstone  ;  Tom  Taylor,  Adam  ;  and  other  well-known  celebri- 
ties assisting).  Then  he  describes  me  :  "A  muffled  creature  of 
sinister  aspect.  Short,  auburn-locked,  extinguished  by  a  por- 
tentous hat,  trip})ing  and  stumbling  over  a  cloak,  or  robe,  in 
whose  dragging  folds  he  conceals  his  identity  as  well  as  his 
power  of  volition,  a  weird  and  gruesome  phantom.     AVhat — oh 


THE   CAITIFF       AND   ORLANDO. 


MY   CONFESSIONS  AS  A    SPECIAL    ARTIST.  63 

what — is  this  hovering  ghost  1  He  must  be  just  defunct,  for 
the  purgatorial  garments  fit  him  not,  he  stumbles  at  every 
step,  and  when  he  trips  an  underdress  is  unveiled  that's  like  a 
City  waiter's.  What  is  he — the  arch  conspirator — doing 
himself  \  He  starts,  tries  to  conceal  a  book,  but  we  snatch  it 
from  him.  Sketches !  lots  of  sketches !  caricatures,  low  and 
vulgar  portraits  of  ourselves!  'What  are  you?'  we  scream, 
'  and  why  this  orgy  {  Speak,  caitiff,  or  for  ever  hold  your 
peace ! ' 

"  Perceiving  that  we  are  in  earnest  and  not  to  be  trided  with, 
and  glare  with  forbidding  mien,  the  caitiff  speaks  in  trembling 
accents.  '  If  you  please,'  he  says,  '  I'm  the  artist  from  the  great 
illustrated  journal;  I'm  drawing  pictures  of  the  lunatics.  My  dis- 
guise is  beyond  my  own  control, 

1      ,      •  1        1.    T'  J.     1   1      •  x'  fANCY     DRESS     oe     UNIFORM 

and  trips  me  up,  but  1  m  told  its  .  „ 

-I-  J-  '  Absoiutelt  Nzcessart. 

becoming.'    '  Lunatics  ! '  we  echo. 

"  'Yes,     the    caitiff  murmurs. 
*  This  is  the  annual  fancy  dress 

ball  at  Brookwood  Asylum.    You     L-x^rfX^.,-^^^^-^    c^-^-^ 
and    I    and    the     doctors     and 

attendants  are  the  only  sane  people  in  the  place.  By-and-by 
the  country  gentry  will  be  admitted,  and  then  the  tangle  will  be 
hopeless,  for  even  in  everyday  life  it's  irajoossible  to  know  who's 
mad  and  who  isn't.      How  much  more  here  ?  ' 

"  We  left  tlie  trembling  caitiff  to  his  secret  sketching,  and  the 
despondency  produced  by  his  appearance.  He  was  sane,  was  he  ? 
Then  in  him  were  we  revenged  on  human  nature,  for  sure  never 
was  mortal  more  oppressed  by  his  gear  and  his  surroundings." 

The  fact  is  that  my  editor,  in  sending  his  "young  man," 
omitted  to  say  that  the  invitation  was  crossed  with  "fancy  dress 
only,"  so  I  arrived  in  ordinary  war-paint.  The  Doctor  was 
horrified.  "This  will  never  do.  My  patients  will  resent  it. 
You  must  be  in  fancy  dress."  All  my  host  could  find  was  a 
seedy  red  curtain  and  an  old  cocked  hat  (had  it  been  a  nightcap 
I  should  have  been  com]3lete  as  Caudle).  I  wrapped  this 
martial  cloak  around  me,  and  soon  found  myself  in  the  most 
extraordinary   scene,    so   graphically   described    by    Wingfield. 


64  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

He  was  i]ot  alone  in  his  scorn  for  me.  The  *'  Duke  of  York" 
had  a  great  contempt  for  my  appearance,  but  when  introduced 
to  him  as  His  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales,  he  unbent, 
waved  his  l)auble,  and  commanded  me  to  be  seated.  The 
visitors  eyed  me  suspiciously  all  the  evening,  and  on  my 
entering  the  supper-room,  accompanied  by  the  Doctor,  they 
were  seized  with  the  idea  that  I  must  be  a  very  dangerous 
case,  and  readily  made  room — in  fact,  made  off.  One  of  the  poor 
patients  was  an  artist,  and  showed  me  his  sketch-book,  the  work 
of  many,  many  months — a  number  of  drawings  in  colour,  stuck 
one  on  top  of  the  other,  resembling  an  elongated  concertina,  so 
that  only  the  corners  of  the  pages  could  be  seen.  The  patients 
wore  costumes  designed  and  made  by  themselves,  in  marked 
contrast  to  their  stylish  keepers.  Among  the  guests  the  county 
families  were  well  represented,  and  garrison  officers  from  a 
neighbouring  depot  formed  a  motley  group  which  a  looker-on, 
viewing  the  scene  as  in  a  kaleidoscope,  would  laugh  at.  One 
turn,  and  the  next  moment  some  incident  might  occur  which  an 
itnaginative  brain  could  easily  work  into  a  romance  too  touching 
to  relate. 

For  some  years  I  had  quite  a  run  of  fancy  dress  balls,  a  craze 
at  that  time,  acting  as  special  artist  for  various  periodicals, 
the  Illustrated  London  Neivs  in  particular.  The  ball  aljove 
recorded  was  unique,  but  there  is  very  little  variety  in  such 
gatherings,  where  variety  is  the  one  thing  aimed  at,  thus 
showino;  the  limit  of  our  Eno;lish  artistic  invention.  The 
ingredients  of  a  ball  of  three  hundred,  say,  would  be  as  follows. — 
Thirty  Marie  Stuarts,  ten  Marguerites,  twenty-eight  Fausts,  fifty 
Flower  Girls,  nine  Portias,  three  Clowns,  sixteen  Matadores, 
thirty  Sailors,  twenty-five  Ophelias,  twenty-five  Desdemonas, 
the  remainder  uniforms  and  nondescripts.  Of  course  any 
popular  figure,  picture  or  play  of  the  moment  will  be  represented. 
When  the  relief  of  Mafeking  took  place,  the  number  of  Baden- 
Powclls,  tall,  short,  young,  old,  thin  and  stout,  in  the  various 
fancy  balls  and  l)azaars  appearing  will  l)e,  as  newspaper  leader- 
writers  say,  "  a  fact  fresh  in  the  mind  of  the  reader."  Some 
years  ago  a  portrait  of  the  "  missing  Gains! )orougli,"  a  picture  of 


MY   COXFESSIOXS  AS  A    SPECIAL   ARTIST. 


65 


the  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  which  mysteriously  vanished  from 
Agnew's  gallery  in  Bond  Street,  was  represented  in  dozens  at 
the  fancy  Imlls  of  the  period,  and  the  Gilbert- Sullivan  opera 
"  Patience,"  supplied  many  a  costume.  My  brother  "  special ''  on 
this  occasion — Lewis  AVingfield- — -was  a  Crichton  of  eccentricity. 
The  son  of  an  Irish  peer,  an  officer  in  the  Guards,  he  dressed 
as  a  ballet- girl  and  danced  on  the  stage  ;  was  a  journalist  and 
wrote  for  Charles  Dickens  when  that  great  novelist  edited 
Household  Words.     Wingfield  never  did  anything  l)y  halves, 


AT   A  FANCY   DRESS   BALL. 


so  in  writino;  a  series  of  articles  for  Dickens  on  the  casual  wards 
of  London  he  personated  a  street  photographer  (having  delicate 
hands  he  could  not  pretend  to  be  a  labourer),  and  wrote  his 
experiences  of  the  dreadful  state  of  affairs  existing  in  those  days 
under  the  rule  of  Bumbledom.  The  last  he  sought  relief  at  was 
situated  close  to  Golden  Square.  Here  he  was  very  harshly 
treated,  and  when  he  left  he  rapidly  changed  into  his  usual 
clothes,  drove  up  to  the  estal)lishment  as  one  of  the  life  patrons 
(all  his  family  had  for  years  supported  the  charity),  and  had 
the  satisfaction  of  dismissing  the  overbearing  overseer,  to  the 
wretch's  chagrin.  Winofield  related  this  incident  with  great 
glee. 

C. — VOL.    I.  F 


66  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

Anxious  to  find  out  the  amount  niggers  made  on  the  Derby 
Day,  he  decided  to  go  as  a  Ijurnt-cork  nigger  himself;  but  it 
is  impossilJe  to  do  this  unless  you  are  of  that  ilk,  for  like  the 
lousiness  of  the  beggars  and  street  performers,  everything  is 
properly  organised ;  there  is  a  proper  system  and  superintendent 
to  arrange  matters.  After  some  difficulty  he  managed  to  get 
introduced  as  the  genuine  article,  and  at  4  in  the  morning  had  to 
stand  with  the  other  Ethiopian  minstrels  at  "  Poverty  Junction,'* 
between  Waterloo  Bridge  and  Waterloo  Station,  while  lots  were 
drawn  for  positions  on  the  course.  As  luck  would  have  it, 
AVingfield  drew  a  pitch  opposite  the  Grand  Stand,  where  at 
least  he  would  be  among  his  own  acquaintances.  All  the 
niggers  had  to  walk  to  Epsom,  unless  it  happened  some  friendly 
carter  could  be  induced  to  offer  a  seat.  Had  four-in-hands  come 
along  Wingfield  might  have  been  saved  a  walk,  but  costers  were 
to  him  unknown.  By  lunch-time  he  was  heartily  sick  of  his 
new  life.  However,  he  was  determined  to  carry  it  through. 
In  the  evening,  after  his  long,  hot  day's  Avork,  he  found  he  had 
to  wait  for  the  policeman's  train.  After  the  half-million  people 
had  returned  to  London,  he  was  allowed  to  crawl  into  a 
carriage,  and  being  thorouglily  tired  he  fell  asleep  in  a  corner  of 
the  compartment.  But  the  police  wanted  some  entertainment, 
and  waking  him  up,  said  : 

"  Now  then,  darky,  tune  up  I  we  can  pay  you  as  well  as  the 
toffs  ;  let's  have  a  song ! "  They  had  a  concert  all  the  way, 
Win2;field  sinoino-  the  solos.  The  hat  was  sent  round  and  a 
collection  made,  and  to  the  bitter  end  Wingfield  had  to  bang 
away  at  his  banjo  and  squeak  with  what  little  voice  he  had  left. 
This  nearly  finished  him.  Ai-riving  at  Victoria,  he  hailed  a 
hansom.  One  driver  after  another  eyed  him  scornfully  and 
passed  on.  He  then  for  the  first  time  realised  that  it  is  not  a 
customary  thing  for  an  itinerant  nigger  to  drive  about  London 
in  hansoms,  even  on  Derby  Day.  So  he  dragged  himself  wearily 
along  the  streets  until  he  hap])oned  to  meet  an  intimate  friend. 
To  him  he  explaiiied  matters,  and  his  friend  called  a  hansom 
fur  liini  and  jiaid  the  driver  as  wull  before  he  would  take  up  his 
(biskv  fare.      He  thouulit  tlie  fact  of  his  driviuo-  a  street  niowr 


Ml'   COXFESSIONS  AS  A   SPECIAL   ARTIST. 


67 


a  great  joke,  and  made  merry  over  his  passenger  as  he  passed 
the  other  drivers.  But  he  was  very  much  astonished  when  he 
drove  up  in  front  of  quite  an  imposing  dwelling  and  saw  the 
door  opened  by  a  footman  as  the  nigger  toiled  up  the  steps. 

As  an  artist  Wingfield  was  ambitious.  Finding,  as  he  told  me, 
that  he  could  never  be  a  great  artist,  he  preferred  not  to  be  one 
at  all.  On  his  walls  were  large  classic  paintings,  not  likely  ever 
to  find  their  way  to  the  walls  of  anyone  else.  But  he  tried  his 
hand  at  popular  art  as  well.  A  scene  in  a  circus,  for  instance, 
was  one  subject.  A  pretty  little  child  was  engaged  to  sit  in  his 
studio,  but  as  that  day  he  was  going  to 
Hengler's  Circus  to  paint  the  background 
he,  to  the  delight  of  the  child,  took  her  with 
him.  The  little  girl  played  about  in  the 
ring,  and  was  noticed  by  Mr.  Hengler,  who 
asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  be  dressed  up 
and  play  in  the  same  ring  at  night.  This 
led  to  the  child  becoming  a  professional. 
She  enchanted  everyone  as  Cinderella.  Her 
name  was  Connie  Gilchrist.  I  fell  in  love 
with  her  myself  when  I  was  in  my  teens 
and  first  saw  her  as  Cinderella.  Afterwards 
when  I  came  to  London  I  was  as  ignorant 
as  a  Lord  Chief  Justice  as  to  who  Connie 
Gilchrist  was ;  but  I  recollect  a  model 
sitting  to  me  recommending  my  writing  to  her  younger  sister 
for  some  figures  she  thought  her  sister  would  suit.  The  day 
was  fixed,  l)ut  by  the  morning's  post  I  received  a  letter  from 
the  young  lady  to  say  that  Mr.  Hollingshead,  of  the  Gaiety 
Theatre,  had  sent  for  her,  and  she  could  not  sit  to  me.  She  was 
Connie  Gilchrist,  and  I  believe  this  was  the  last  engagement 
she  had  accepted  as  a  professional  model. 

Telegram  from  the  editor  of  the  Illustrated  London  Neivs  : — 
"Election,  Liverpool,  see  to  it  at  once."  So  I  did.  On  arriving 
in  the  evening,  I  rushed  off  to  a  "  ward  meeting."  To  my 
surprise  the  artist  of  a  rival  paper  sat  down  beside  me.  He  did 
not  frighten  me  away,  but  candidly  confessed  that  he  had  seen  a 

F  2 


LEWIS  WINGFIELD  AS 
A  STREET  NIGGER 
HOME  FROM  THE 
DERBY. 


68  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

private  telegram  of  mine  sayiug  I  was  starting,  and  his  editor 
packed  him  off  by  the  same  ti-ain.  Ha  !  I  must  be  equal  to 
him !  I  sat  up  all  night  and  drew  a  page  on  wood,  ready  for 
engraving,  and  sent  it  off  by  the  first  train  in  the  morning.  It 
was  in  the  press  before  my  rival's  rough  notes  left  Liverpool. 
One  would  hardly  think,  to  see  candles  stuck  in  my  boots,  that 
the  hotel  was  the  Old  Adelphi.  I  trust  the  "  special "  of  the 
future  will  find  the  electric  light,  or  a  better  supply  of  bedroom 
candlesticks.  All  day  again  sketching,  and  all  night  hard  at 
work,  burning  the  midnight  oil  (I  was  nearly  writing  boots).  A 
slice  of  luck  kept  me  awake  in  the  early  morning.  A  knock  at 
my  door,  and  to  my  surprise  a  friend  w^alked  in  who  had  come 

down  by  a  night  train  for  a 
"  daily,"  and  seeing  my  name  in 
the  visitors'  book  had  looked  me 
up,  thinking  I  could  give  him 
some  "tips."  "All  right,"  I 
said  ;  "a  bargain :  you  sit  for 
me  and  I'll  talk.  Here,  stand 
like  this" — the  Liberal  candidate. 
"  Capital !  Now  round  like  this" 
'  —  the    Conservative.     "  Drawn 

AN   ALL-NIGHT    SITTING.  ^  i-r-     ,  >j         k       ^       r^  ^i 

irom  lite  !  And  alter  another 
day  of  this  kind  of  thing,  I  reached  home  without  having  had 
an  hour's  sleep.     Oh!  a  "  sj^ecial's"  life  is  not  a  happy  one. 

Great  political  excitement,  there  is  no  doubt,  turns  men's 
heads.  Once  I  recollect  finding  a  most  dignified  provincial 
politician  in  this  state,  and  necessity  compelled  me  to  turn  him 
into  a  sketching-stool.  Mr.  Gladstone  was  speaking  at  Bingley 
Hall,  Birmingham,  and  although  close  to  him  on  the  platform,  I 
could  not,  being  only  five  feet  two,  see  over  the  heads  of  others 
when  all  stood  to  cheer.  I  mentioned  this  fact  to  my  neighbour. 
"Oh,  you  must  not  miss  this  scene!"  he  said,  and  quickly, 
without  ceremonv,  he  had  me  on  his  back,  his  bald  head  serving 
as  an  easel.  It  has  struck  mc  since  that  had  this  old  gentleman, 
a  big  man  in  his  native  town,  and  still  bigger  in  his  own 
estimation,  seen  himself  as  others  saw  him  at  that  moment,  the 


Kn.  2126. — VOL.  Lxxvi. 


SATURDAY,    FEBRLfAEY    7,    1880. 


SKETCHES   AT  TUB   LIVXHPOOL  ELECTION  ;    A   WARD   MEETING.— SEE   PAGE   138. 


Reduction  of  Page  Design.     Brush  Drau-'mg  on  wood,  made  after  election  meeting  at  night,  and 
despatched  to  London  by  early  morning  train.     See  the  Confessions  of  a  Special  Artist. 


MY   CONFESSIONS  AS  A    SPECIAL   ARTIST. 


71 


probability  is  that  he  would  not  have  felt  anything  like  so  kindly 
to  me  as  I  did  to  him. 

Another  instance  of  a  special  artist  having  to  depend  upon 
his  wits  was  when  I  found  myself  at  a  big  central  manufacturing 
town,  sent  down  in  a  hurry  from  London  by  the  Illustrated 
London  News  to  illustrate  a  most  important  election  meeting — 
an  election  upon  which  the  fate  of  the  Grovernment  of  the  day 
depended.  When  I  arrived  the  mills  had  been  closed,  crowds 
were  in  the  streets,  and  it  would  have  been  a  simple  matter  to 
have  got  into  Mafeking  compared  wdth 
getting  into  the  hall  in  which  the 
meetino;  was  at  the  time  beins;  held. 

If  there  is  one  thing  I  dislike  more 
than  another  it  is  a  crowd,  particularly 
an  electioneering  crowd.  Political  fever 
is  a  bad  malady,  even  when  one  is 
impervious  to  it,  if  he  has  to  fight  his 
way  through  an  infected  mob.  Quickly 
slipping  round  to  the  principal  hotel,  and 
finding  there  the  carriages  engaged  for 
the  celebrities  of  the  meetino;  I  o-ot  into 
one  and  was  driven  rapidly  up  to  the 
hall,  cheered  by  the  mob,  who  doubtless 
looked  upon  me  as  some  active  politician. 
Had  I  put  my  head  out  of  the  window 
and  promised  them  any  absurdity,  I 
believe  they  would  have  chosen  me  their  member  on  the  spot. 
Arriving  at  the  hall,  I  Avas  received  by  the  tipstaffs,  who, 
probably  not  catching  my  name  distinctly,  thouglit  as  the  hotel 
people  had  done,  that  I  was  sent  down  in  some  official  capacity, 
and  politely  ushered  me  to  the  platform,  where  I  was  given  a 
seat  in  the  front  row. 

Ah,  you  Jittle  know  the  difficulties  of  the  poor  artist  in 
running  his  subjects  to  earth.  When  in  New  York  I  was 
specially  engaged  by  the  New  York  Ileyxdd  to  contribute  a 
series  of  studies  of  the  leading  public  men.  These  were  to 
appear  in  the  Sunday  edition. 


MY  EASEL.  DRAWING  MR. 
GLADSTONE  AT  A  PUBLIC 
MEETING. 


72 


COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


Those  Sunday  papers  I  What  gluttons  for  reading  the 
Americans  are  !  Tlic  first  Sabbath  morning  I  was  in  the  States 
I  telephoned  in  an  off-hand  sort  of  way  from  my  bedroom  for 
"  some  Sunday  papers."  1  went  on  dressing,  and  somehow  forgot 
my  order,  l)ut  on  leaving,  or  rather  attempting  to  leave,  my  room 
afterwards,  I  found  to  my  astonishment  the  doorway  completely 
blocked  with  newspapers  to  the  quantity  of  several  tons.  I  rang 
my  bell  vigorously.  The  attendant  arrived,  and  seemed  con- 
siderably amused  at  my  look  of  consternation.     He  explained  to 

me  that  these  were  five 
of  the  Sunday  papers,  and 
added  apologetically  tha.t 
they  were  all  he  could 
get  at  present.  If  I  had 
stayed  to  read  through 
that  pile  I  should  be  in 
the  States  now. 

The  first  "  subject  "  I 
was  requested  to  cari- 
cature was  the  celebrated 
sensational  preacher,  Dr. 
Parkhurst.  When  I 
arrived  at  his  church  it 
was  crowded  to  the  doors, 
and  I  could  not  get  near 

THE   AMEIlieAN    SU^'DAY   PAPERS.  .  ^ 

him.  A  churchwarden 
told  me  to  sit  down  where  I  was,  but  1  put  my  hand  to  my  ear 
and  shook  my  head,  as  much  as  to  say  "  I  do  not  hear  you." 
Then  one  churchwarden  said  to  the  other  churchwarden,  "  This 
man  is  deaf,  he  doesn't  hear ;  I  was  telling  him  to  sit 
down " 

"  Pardon  me,  but  are  you  speaking  VI  whispered.  "  I  regret 
to  say  that  1  am  very  deaf  I  came  specially  from  London  to 
hear  your  great  preacher,  and  I  should  not  like  to  return  without 
gratifying  this  one  desire  I  have." 

"  Say,  is  your  wife  here  to-day  ?  "  asked  one  churchwarden  of 
the  other. 


MY   CONFESSIOKS  AS  A    SPECIAL   ARTIST.  73 

"  No,  she  is  sick  at  home." 

"  Could  not  you  squeeze  this  funny  little  Britisher  into  your 
pew  ? " 

"Guess  I  could." 

So  they  beckoned  to  me  to  follow  them,  and  I  was  ushered  up  the 
aisle  and  sat  under  the  Doctor.  The  result  of  that  little  manoeuvre 
was  that  I  did  my  work  in  peace,  although  sadly  troubled  to  see 
his  face  in  consequence  of  the  church  being  dark  and  the  reading 
lamp  hiding  portion  of  it. 

In  America  introductions  are  superfluous,  so  knowing  Dr. 
Parkhurst  came  over  in  the  Germanic,  the  same  ship  that  I 
travelled  in  some  months  later,  I  walked  boldly  after  the  service 
into  his  room,  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  mentioned  in  a 
familiar  way  the  oflicers  of  the  ship,  the  storm,  and  other  matters 
connected  with  his  journey,  and  in  that  way  had  the  chance 
of  ten  minutes'  chat  and  a  closer  observation  of  his  facial 
expression. 

It  may  happen,  even  when  everything  is  carefully  prepared 
to  make  the  visit  of  a  special  artist  easy  and  comfortable,  that 
work  may  be  difficult  to  accomplish.  I  must  go  to  the  United 
States  for  an  illustration  of  what  I  mean. 

Some  years  ago  I  met  Max  O'Rell  at  a  London  club,  and  was 
introduced  by  him  to  a  very  English-looking  gentleman  with  an 
American  accent,  who  immediately  said : 

'■  Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Furniss.  When  you  come  over  to 
the  States  we  must  jDut  you  on  the  grill  I " 

What  did  he  mean  ?  I  looked  at  Max.  Max  turned  pale, 
and  seemed  for  a  moment  to  lose  his  self-possession,  then 
hurriedly  whispered  in  my  ear : 

"Jolly  good  fellow — very  witty — president  of  strange  club 
in  America  where  they  chaff  their  guests — see  my  last  book  !  " 

I  recollected  readino;  al)out  a  club  that  goes  in  for  roastino-  as 

o  o  o 

well  as  toasting  its  guests,  and  replied  : 

"  Strange  !  "  I  said.  "  I  always  thought  the  Americans  were  in 
advance  of  the  English  ;  yet  here  in  my  country  we  do  not  put 
the  Furniss  on  the  grill,  but  the  grill  on  the  furnace ! " 

Max  laughed  and  looked  relieved,  and  said  : 


74 


COXFHSSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


"  You'll  do — they'll  let  you  oft'  easy.  A  P'rencliman  can't 
stand  elialF,   so  I  sat  down." 

lie  had  stood  the  lire  of  the  enemy  upon  the  field  of  battle, 
hut  he  couldn't  stand  the  fusillade  of  wit  from  the  Americans  at 
their  dinner  table. 

The  stranger  was  no  other  than  Major  Moses  P.  Handy,  after- 
wards "  C'liief  of  Department  of  Publicity  and  Promotion  at  the 
World's  Columbian  Exposition,  Chicago  ; "  so  when  I  found 
myself  in  the  "Windy  City"  as  an  unattached  "special"  from 
the  Old  World  to  the  New  "World's  Fair,"  I  called  at  Kand- 
McNally  Buildings,  not  to  be  put  on  the  grill,  but  to  be  put  in 

possession  of  some  facts  con- 
cerning that  great  "  Exposition." 
Sometimes  there  is  a  great 
deal  in  a  name.  For  instance, 
the  late  Major  Handy  at  once  in- 
dicated the  man — handy,  always 
ready  with  tongue,  hands  and 
legs.  He  handed  me  round  the 
city,  told  me  of  its  wonders,  and 
sent  me  off"  enraptured  to  the 
"  Exposition."  Here  1  was  met 
by  one  of  the  staff",  and  escorted 
all  over  the  skeleton  of  what  eventually  proved  to  be  tlie  most 
wonderful  "  Exposition,"  Exhibition,  World's  Fair,  or  whatever 
you  like  to  call  it,  that  the  New  World  had  ever  seen. 

The  gentleman  in  possession  who  met  me  and  acted  as  my 
guide  was  a  clean-cut  featured,  smooth-faced,  typical  American, 
"full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances "  and — tobacco  juice. 
He  had  a  merry  wit,  and  his  running  commentary  would  have 
been  invaluable  "  copy  "  to  America's  pet  humourist.  Bill  Nye. 

I  had  a  pencil  in  the  pocket  in  one  side  of  my  coat,  and  a  note- 
book in  tl)e  pocket  in  the  other  side,  l)ut  the  carriage  in  which 
I  was  driven  about  ruslicd  on  so  over  the  rou^li  o;round  and 
"corduroy  roads"  and  hills  and  chasms,  that  I  found  it  a  matter 
of  utter  impossibility  to  get  the  pencil  and  the  book  out  together, 
and,   therefore,   the  facts   I   give  about  the  "Exposition"   may 


MA  J  oil   HANDY. 


JIY   COXFESSIOFS  AS  A    SPECIAL   ARTIST. 


75 


want  verification,  for  my  worthy  guide  kept  firing  them  into  me 
with  the  rapidity  of  a  Maxim  or  a  Hotchkiss. 

"Now  here  is  the  Manufactures  and  Liberal  Arts  Building. 
Guess  the  largest  building  ever  erected— 1,641,223  feet  long, 

17,894    feet   high "      Down   goes   the   trap   on    one   side, 

plunging  into  some  excavation,  like  a  double-harnessed  Eoman 


i  ^)^,,^ 


THE    world's  fair,   CHICAGO.      A   *' SPECIAL'S  "   VISIT. 


chariot.  However,  we  scrambled  up  again,  but  I  had  lost  the 
important  figure  of  the  width  of  the  building.  Now  I  don't 
for  a  moment  wish  to  imply  that  my  guide  was  exaggera- 
ting, but  this  rather  reminds  me  of  a  story  told  of  an 
American  visiting  England,  and  his  host  there  one  day  remarked 
to  him : 

"  My  dear  fellow,  we  are  delighted  with  3^ou  here — in  fact, 
you  are  quite  a  favourite  ;   but  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  tell  you 


76  COKFESSIOXS   OF  A   CARICATURIST. 

that  you  possess  one  failing  pretty  general  with  your  country- 
men— you  do  exaggerate  so  !  " 

"Guess  I  kean't  help  it,  but  if  you'll  just  kindly  give  me  a 
kick  under  the  table  when  I'm  going  too  far  I'll  pull  up  sharp !  " 

With  this  agreement  they  went  out  to  dinner  that  evening,  and 
among  other  topics  the  conversation  turned  upon  conservatories. 
Captain  de  Vere  said  that  he  had  a  conservatory  200  feet  long, 
hut  that  the  Duke  of  Orchid  had  one  nearly  1,000  feet  long. 
The  American  here  struck  in  w^th  : 

"  I  reckon,  gentlemen,  you're  talking  about  conservatories. 
Now  there's  a  friend  of  mine  in  Amurrca,  a  private  gentleman, 
who  has  a  conservatory  5,000  feet  long,  3,000  feet  high,  and" 
(kick)—"  oh  !— 2  feet  wide  !  " 

But  had  I  heard  the  figures  representing  the  width  of  the 
building,  I  don't  suppose  they  would  have  been  in  the  same 
absurd  proportion  as  this,  for  not  all  the  shin-kicking  in  the 
world  would  have  deterred  my  entertaining  and  conversational 
conductor. 

"  You  must  assemble  together  in  your  mind's  eye  all  the 
mighty  structures  already  existing  in  the  world  to  form  any  idea 
of  the  magnitude  of  this  ^yemenjious  edifice  before  you.  It  is 
sixteen  times  as  large  as  St.  Peter's  Cathedral  at  Eome,  West- 
minster Abbey  and  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  would  nestle  together  in 
its  ventilating  shaft,  and  the  whole  of  the  armies  of  Europe 
could  sit  down  comfortably  to  dinner  in  tlie  central  hall.  The 
Tower  of  London  would  be  lost  under  one  of  the  staircases,  and 
fifty  Cleo})atra's  Needles  stuck  one  on  top  of  the  other  would 
not  scratch  the  roof.  The  building  cost  fifty  million  six 
hundred  and  eighty-four  thousand  two  hundred  dollars  seventy- 
five    cents,   and "      On   dashed  the    horses    in  their  wild 

career. 

Down  we  went,  I  thougiit  into  the  bed  of  Lake  Michigan, 
but  in  an  instant  we  were  up  again,  my  hat  in  one  direction 
and  my  stick  in  another,  and  I  was  well  shaken  before  being 
taken  to  the  next  building. 

"  Say,  Mr.  Furniss,  the  roads  are  not  complete  yet,  but  you 
mustn't  mind  these  little  u})S  and  downs.     Guess  these  horses 


i/r   COXFESSIONS  AS  A   SPECIAL   ARTIST. 


77 


would  pull  through  anything — brought  'em  right  away  from 
the  fire-engine  shed,  considerable  fresh ! " 

At  this  moment  a  train  came  puffing  along  laden  with  masses 
of  ironwork  for  the  central  building.  The  horses  shied  at  the 
smoky  monster,  turned  a  somersault  (at  least,  so  it  seemed  to 
me),  and  we  nearly  took  a  header  into  the  lake  again  ;  but  the 
charioteer  managed  to  turn  them  just  in  time,  and  the  fiery  fire- 
engine  steeds  snorted  past  their  iron  brother,  eclipsing  even  his 
noise  and  steam. 

I  now  began  to  feel  thoroughly  happy,  but  I  kept  a  watchful 


"  ON  DASHED   THE   HORSES   IN   THEIR   WILD  CAREER." 

eye  on  those  gee-gees,  and  as  we  skipped  over  impromptu 
bridges,  whizzed  round  the  corners  of  newly-made  piles,  and 
bumped  over  incomplete  parapets,  I  quite  enjoyed  myself ;  but 
somehow  or  other  I  couldn't  quite  manage  to  catch  all  the 
marvellous  details  respecting  the  buildings  we  were  passing.  I 
was  qualifying  myself  for  the  Volunteer  Fire  Brigade.  But  our 
steeds  were  reined  in  for  a  moment  while  my  guide  pointed  out 
to  me  the  Dairy  Building. 

"I  reckon,  sir,"  he  said,  "that  dairy  will  be  an  eye-opener. 
It'll  be  sooperb,  and  I  guess  it  won't  be  long  after  the  opening  of 
the  show  that  they'll  be  turning  out  gold-edged  butter ! " 

Off  we  go  again,  over   mounds   and  down   dykes,  jumping 


78  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

rocks  and  shooting  rapids,  and  I  am  certain  that  had  our  con- 
veyance been  a  milk-cart,  butter,  gokl-edged  or  otherwise,  would 
have  been  produced  pretty  soon.  AYe  pull  up  with  a  jerk 
opposite  the  Agricultural  Building. 

"The  building  is  5,000  by  8,000  feet,  design  bold  and  heroic. 
On  each  corner  and  from  the  centre  of  the  building  are  reared 
pavilions." 

"Indeed! "  I  said.  "Are  they  reared  by  incubators,  or  upon 
some  special  soil  from  the  fertile  tracts  of  the  Far  West  ? " 

My  guide  did  not  evidently  deem  my  question  worthy  an 
answer,  and  continued  : 

"  Surmounted  by  a  mammoth  glass  dome  460  feet  high, 
constructed  on  purpose  to  accommodate  the  giant  Pennsylvania 
pumpkin  we're  having  raised  specially  for  the  Exposition.  That 
pumpkin  will  be  hollowed  out,  and  600  people  will  be  able  to 
sit  down  together  at  once  in  its  interior." 

"Now  we'll  go  to  the  Transportation  Building,"  said  my 
indefatioable  conductor  to  the  driver. 

"  Bless  me  !  "  I  thought  ;  "  is  this  a  convict  prison  '?  Are  we 
to  have  visitors  from  Sing  Sing,  and  am  I  to  see  some  of  my 
friends  from  Portland  and  Dartmoor  %  Will  there  be  a  model 
of  the  Bastille,  and  a  contingent  of  escaped  refugees  from  the 
mines  of  Siberia  ?  Or  is  the  building  an  enormous  concern  for 
the  transport  of  visitors  to  and  from  the  Exposition  1 " 

"  Say,  Mr.  Furniss,  this  is  the  most  original  conception  in  the 
whole  Exposition.  You'll  see  contrasted  here  every  mode  of 
transport,  and  a  complete  train,  with  a  display  of  locomotives 
never  before  attempted,  will  be  quite  s^«  pendens  !  To  quote  the 
guidebook:  'There  will  be  at  least  100  engines  exhibited,  and 
placed  so  as  to  fjice  each  other,'  and  every  day  we  will  have  a 
steam  tournament.  Guess  it  will  be  a  case  of  the  survival  of  the 
fittest  of  the  engines  when  they  meet !  A-'isitors  fond  of  railway 
accidents  can  l)e  despatched  with  a  completeness  only  to  be 
witnessed  in  the  stock-yards  of  this  great  city !  " 

This  ohastlv  suu'ij'estion  had  tlie  etlect  of  makino-  me  feel  more 
comfortable  than  ever. 

We  had  been   some    hours   drivino-    throuuh    this  wonderful 


3IY  COXFESSIOFS  AS  A   SPECIAL   ARTIST.  79 

skeleton  city.  Tlie  last  dying  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  sinking 
behind  the  sweeping  prairies  of  the  far,  far  West,  lit  up  the  horizon 
with  a  blood-red  glow,  and,  as  the  shades  of  evening  began  to 
descend  and  envelop  the  embryo  Exposition,  the  driver  turned 
the  horses'  heads  whence  we  had  come — towards  the  sunset. 

The  animals  snorted,  their  nostrils  inflated,  their  eyes  glistened, 
and,  with  tails  erect,  they  tore  off  straight  ahead  at  a  tremendous 
rate.  They  couldn't  understand  why  they  had  been  driven 
aimlessly  about  all  this  time ;  but  now  they  saw  the  glare,  as 
they  thought,  of  the  fire — the  glare  they  had  been  accustomed  to 
regard  as  the  beacon  to  guide  them  to  their  goal — a  goal  which 
had  to  be  reached  with  lightning  speed. 

It  seemed   as  if  we   were  flying  through  a  beautiful  f)lace 
destroyed  by  the  ravages  of  fire,  for  in 
the  dim  evenino;  lig-ht  the  outlined  houses 
gave  one  the  impression  that  they  formed 
a    city   dead,    not   a    city   newly -born. 

Away    to    the    Wild    West    of    the 
Exposition  we  flew,  and  were  eventually 

pulled  up  outside  of  one  of  the  larger  and  more  complete 
buildings.  My  faculties  had  been  about  all  shaken  out  of  me 
by  this  time,  and  1  was  so  bewildered  by  the  chaos  of  figures 
in  my  brain — all  that  were  left  of  the  volumes  that  had  been 
poured  into  my  ears — that  I  had  to  be  all  but  lifted  out  of 
the  fire-engine  trap  by  my  good  guide.  He  said,  in  an 
undertone  : 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  show  you  something  we  keep  a  profound 
secret." 

Making  a  supreme  efibrt,  I  dispersed  temporarily  the  armies 
of  figures  conflicting  in  my  unfortunate  head,  and  became  once 
more  a  rational  Ijeing,  so  as  to  appreciate  fully  this  visual  tit-bit 
reserved  to  the  last.  We  entered  the  structure.  What  was  it  ? 
A  mortuary,  a  dissecting-chamber,  or  a  pantomime  property- 
room  ?  Numljers  of  ghost-like  beings  with  bared  arms  streaming 
with  an  opaque-white  liquid  a])peared  to  be  engaged  in  some 
ghoulish  machinations.  Mutilated  figures  of  gigantic  creatures 
lay  strewn  al)out  in  reckless  confusion.     It  seemed  as  if  pigmies 


80 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARIC ATI' JUST. 


were  l)iitchermg  giants;  and  in  the  dim,  weird  light  among 
tliese  uncanny  surroundings  my  jum])led  imagination  whispered 
to  me  that,  after  all,  this  stupendous  Exhibition  I  had  just  rushed 
through  could  not  2>ossil)ly  he  the  work  of  the  insignificant  little 
men  who  swarmed  all  over  the  colossal  buildings  in  such 
ridiculously  absurd  proportion  to  their  pretended  handiwork. 


THE  cha]inp:l-house,  chicagos  world  fair. 

No,  these  giants  had  performed  this  herculean  undertaking, 
and  were  now  being  cut  up — the  reward  of  many  who  attempt 
such  ambitious  tasks.  In  reality,  though,  this  charnel-house  was 
the  sculptors'  studio,  in  wliicli  were  modelled  the  gigantic 
fio-ures  Avhicli  were  to  l)e  placed  on  the  buildinos  and  about 
the  grounds. 

Now  were  I  to  design  a  model  for  a  statue  to  l)e  placed  in  the 
Exposition,  it  would  certainly  l»e  one  of  my  excellent  and  enter- 
taining companion,  who  proved  himself  a  model  conductor,  a 
mode]  of  an  American  gentlrman,  and  one  who  is  justly  proud,  as 


MY   CONFESSION'S  AS  A    SPECIAL  ARTIST.  81 

all  Americans  must  be,  of  the  greatness  and  thoroughness  of  the 
most  splendid  and  most  interesting  Exhibition  ever  recorded  in 
the  annals  of  their  great  country. 

One  day  I  slipped  up  to  10,  Downing  Street,  to  make  a  note 
of  that  very  ordinary,  al])eit  mystical,  abode  of  English  Premiers 
and  officials.  The  eagle  eye  of  the  policeman  was  upon  me,  and 
he  was  soon  at  my  side  subjecting  me  to  minute  examination. 
My  explanation  satisfied  him  that  the  only  lead  I  had  about  me 
was  encased  in  wood  for  the  purpose  of  drawing,  and  that  the 
substance  in  my  hand  was  not  dynamite,  but  innocent  india- 
rubber,  for  wiping  out  people  and  places  only  of  my  own 
creation.  "  Ah,  sir,  there  ain't  much  to  see  there,  unless  the 
'all  porter's  a-lookin'  out  of  the  winder.  But  you  ought  ter  be 
'ere  in  the  mornin'  and  see  the  Premier  a-shavin'  of  'imself,  with 
a  piece  of  old  lookin' -glass  stuck  up  on  the  winder  ter  see  'imself 
in — ^just  wot  the  likes  of  us  would  do!  " 

So  I,  as  a  "  special,"  was  allowed  to  make  a  sketch  of  the 
outside  of  the  famous  No.  10.  Not  long  afterwards  I  happened 
to  be  standing  in  the  same  place  with  a  number  of  journalists 
and  a  crowd  of  the  public  when  a  political  crisis  drew  all 
attention  to  the  Cabinet,  the  members  of  which  were  arriving  at 
intervals,  recognised  and  cheered  by  the  curious.  As  the  door 
opened  to  allow  one  of  the  members  of  the  Cabinet  to  enter,  a 
certain  official  noticed  me  standing  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street.  To  my  surprise  he  beckoned  to  me,  and  said,  "  I  have 
been  waiting  to  see  you,  Mr.  Furniss,  for  a  long  time.  I  have 
some  sketclies  in  the  house  here  I  want  you  to  see  whenever 
you  can  honour  me  with  a  visit." 

"  No  time  like  the  present  moment,"  I  said. 

Before  the  official  realised  that  the  present  moment  was  a 
dangerous  one  for  the  admittance  of  strangers  I  was  taken  into 
the  house.  While  examining  the  works  of  art  in  the  official's 
private  room  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  which  necessitated  his 
leaving  me.  The  moment  of  the  "  special "  had  arrived — now 
or  never  for  a  Cabinet  Council  !  I  was  down  the  passage,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  Cabinet,  when 

C. — VOL.  I.  G 


82  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

Mr.  Gladstone,  the  Premier,  was  addressing  Lord  Granville  and 
the  others,  who  were  seated,  and  just  as  the  Duke  of  Devonshire 
(then  Lord  Hartington)  pushed  by  me  into  the  room,  I  was  seized 
by  the  alarmed  official.  Of  course  I  apologised  for  my  stupidity 
in  taking  the  wrong  turning,  and  I  asked  him  about  Mr.  Glad- 
stone's three  mysterious  hats  in  the  hall,  which  he  informed  me 
Mr.  Gladstone  always  had  by  him, — three  hats  symbolic  of  his 
oratorical  peculiarity  of  using  the  well-known  phrase,  "  There  are 
three  courses  open  to  us." 

I  patted  Lord  Hartington's  dog  on  the  head,  and  had  quietly 
taken  my  departure  before  the  official  was  called  into  the 
Cabinet  and  questioned  about  the  "  spy "  who  had  so  mys- 
teriously interrupted  their  proceedings. 

But  what  was  perhaps  a  more  daring  and  difficult  feat  than 
seeing  a  Cabinet  Council  was  to  disturb  the  "  Sage  of  Queen 
Anne's  Gate"  in  his  semi-official  residence.  It  so  happened 
some  few  years  ago  I  was  commissioned  by  an  illustrated  paper 
to  make  a  drawing  of  a  peculiar  scene  that  took  place  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  It  was  Mr.  Gladstone's  only  appearance 
in  the  Strano-ers'  smokinoj-room  of  the  House,  into  which  he  had 
been  lured  by  the  Member  for  Northampton  to  attend  a  per- 
formance of  a  thouglit  reader,  which  Mr.  Labouchere  had 
arranged  perhajjs  to  show  his  serious  interest  in  the  business  of 
the  country  connected  with  our  great  Houses  of  Parliament. 
Not  being  present  at  this  show,  I  had  no  means  of  getting 
material,  and,  being  in  a  hurry,  I  boldly  drove  up  to  the  house 
of  the  "  Sage  of  Queen  Anne's  Gate."  And  as  I  always  treat 
people  as  they  treat  others,  I  thought  that  a  little  of  the 
Laboucherian  cheek  (shall  I  substitute  the  word  for  confidence'?) 
would  not  be  out  of  place  in  this  instance.  The  servant  took 
my  card,  and  brought  back  the  message  that  Mr.  Labouchere 
was  not  at  home.  As  I  was  at  that  moment  actually  acting 
the  character  of  the  "  Sage,"  and  remembering  the  stories, 
true  or  untrue,  which  he  so  delights  in  telling  himself  about 
his  own  coolness  in  matters  jjrobably  not  less  important 
than  this,  I  asked  the  servant  to  allow  me  to  write  a  letter 
to   ]\Ir.    Labouchere,   and   I   was   shown  into   his   studv,   where 


MY  CONFESSIONS  AS  A    SPECIAL  ARTIST. 


83 


I  sat,  and  intended  to  sit,  until  Mr.  Labouehere  made  his 
appearance.  From  time  to  time  the  servant  looked  in,  but 
the  letter  was  never  written.  And  my  thought-reading  proved 
correct.  Without  my  pen  and  pencil  I  drew  Mr.  Labouehere. 
He  eventually  came  downstairs,  and  gave  me  all  the  information 
I  required. 

fJ><®^  was  in  darkness.  To  quote  the  papers, 
"  Foggy  obscuration  rested  over  the  greater 
part  of  its  area."  And  I,  in  common  with 
millions  of  others,  was  having  my  breakfast 
by  gaslight,  when  I  received  an  editorial 
summons  to  attend  the  trial  of  the  Bishop 
of  Lincoln  at  Lambeth  Palace.  Soon  a 
hansom  was  at  the  door,  with  two  lamps 
outside  and  one  within ;  the  latter  smelt 
most  horribly,  and  I  found  out  later  on 
that  it  leaked  and  had  ruined  my  new  overcoat.  With  an 
agility  quite  marvellous  under  the  circumstances  the  horse 
slipped  its  slimy  way  over  the  greasy  streets  to  Lambeth,  and 
dashed  throuQ-h  the  io^  over  Westminster  Bridge  in  a  most 
reckless  manner,  which  disconcerting  performance  was  partly 
explained  by  its  suddenly  stopping  at  the  stable  door  of  Sanger's 
and  refusing  to  budge.  I  was  partially  consoled  by  the  fact 
that  we  were  just  opposite  St.  Thomas's  Hospital,  so  that  I 
should  be  in  good  hands  if  the  worst  befell.  The  fog  becoming 
even  denser,  Sanger's  became  veiled  from  the  sight  of  our  fiery 
steed,  which  thereupon  consented  to  slide  on  towards  Lambeth 
Palace.  A  sharp  turn  brought  us  to  the  gateway,  where  stood 
a  hearse  and  string-  of  mournino;  coaches.  Was  I  too  late  ?  Had 
the  Bishops  passed  sentence,  and  had  the  loved  one  of  Lincoln 
really  been  beheaded  ? 

j\ly  fears  on  this  point  were  relieved  by  a  policeman,  who 
restrained  my  driver's  energetic  endeavours  to  drive  through  the 
wall  of  the  Palace,  and  as  my  password  was  "  Jeune  "  (November 
would  have  been  more  appropriate  on  sucili  a  morning)  I  was 
allowed  inside  the  gates.     Here  I  could  not  see  my  hand,  or 

G  2 


84  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

anyone  else's,  in  front  of  me,  and  after  stumbling  up  some  steps 
and  down  some  others  I  finally  flattened  my  nose  against  a  door. 
Policeman  Na  2  suddenly  appeared,  and  turned  his  bull's-eye 
upon  me.  I  felt  that  I  was  doomed  to  the  deepest  dungeon 
beneath  the  castle  moat ;  I  thought  of  the  whipping- post  I 
have  read  of  in  connection  with  the  Palace ;  of  the  Guard 
Room  with  its  pikes  and  instruments  of  torture,  and  I  trembled. 
Luckily,  however,  the  rays  of  the  lantern  fell  upon  the  note 
in  my  hand,  addressed  to  Francis  Jeune,  Q.C.,  and  the 
good-natured  "All  right,  sir.  Go  hup.  'E's  a-speakin'  now," 
came  as  a  reprieve. 

I  stumble  into  the  large  historic  hall  known  as  the  Library, 
wherein  the  great  trial  of  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln  is  being  held. 
The  weird  scene  strongly  resembles  the  Dream  Trial  in  "  The 
Bells,"  where  the  judges,  counsel,  and  all  concerned  are  in  a  fog. 
I  expect  the  limelight  to  flash  suddenly  upon  the  chief  actor, 
the  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  as  he  takes  the  stage  and  re-acts  the  part 
that  has  caused  the  trial  The  only  lights  in  the  long  and  lofty 
Library,  excepting  the  clerical  and  legal,  are  a  dozen  or  two  wax 
candles  and  a  few  oil-lamps — of  daylight,  gaslight,  or  electric  light, 
nothing.  I  can  hear  the  voice  of  Jeune,  Q.C.,  which  gladdens  my 
heart  amid  these  sepulchral  surroundings,  but  1  see  him  not. 
As  my  eyes  gradually  become  accustomed  to  the  strange  scene,  1 
find  that  it  is  composed  of  three  distinct  "sets,"  which  present 
the  appearance  of  a  muddled-up  stage  picture  when  the  flats  go 
wrong,  and  you  have  a  part  of  the  Surrey  Hills,  a  corner  of 
Drury  Lane  and  a  side  of  a  West  End  drawing-room  run  on  at 
the  same  time. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  Library  we  have  the  Church,  very 
High  Church,  represented  by  an  Archbishop  and  five  Bishops  ; 
also  a  Judge,  in  a  full-bottomed  wig,  who  has  evidently  got  in 
by  mistake.  Then  we  have  the  Law,  represented  by  a  row  of 
(j.C.'s,  their  juniors,  and  attendants ;  and  then  a  chorus  of 
ordinary  people  and  common,  or  Thames  Policemen.  These  are 
separated  by  red  ropes  and  some  red  tape  ;  the  latter  I  cut  with 
my  self-written  passport — my  note  to  the  Q.C.  who  still  addresses 
the  Court. 


iVY   CONFESSIONS  AS   A    SPECIAL  ARTIST. 


85 


I  have  come  here  to  see  the  Bishop  of  lincoln,  and  I  roam 
about  in  the  fog  to  find  him.  Ah,  that  figure  !  there  he  is  !  I 
immediately  sketch  him,  only  to  find  out  that  the  individual  in 
question  is  the  Clerk  of  the  Court,  or  whatever  the  title  of  that 
functionary's  equivalent  may  be  in  Lambeth  Palace.  What 
vexes  me  is  that  whenever  1  enquire  the  whereabouts  of  the 
Bishop,  a  warning  finger  is  raised  to  the  lips  to  denote  silence. 


THE   BISHOP   OF   LIXCOLN'S   TRIAL.      (FrOIH    "  Puncll") 

The  Bishops  sit  round  three  tables,  on  a  raised  platform.  In 
the  centre  is  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury ;  on  his  right  the 
mysterious  Judge,  in  full  wig  and  red  robes  ;  here  is  the  Vicar- 
General,  Sir  James  Parker  Deaiie,  Q.C. ;  next  to  him  sits  Assessor 
Dr.  Atlay,  Bishop  of  Hereford,  who  looks  anything  but  happy, 
his  hair  presenting  the  appearance  of  being  blown  about  by  a 
strong  draught,  while  his  hand  is  raised  to  his  face,  suggesting 
that  the  drauglit  had  caused  toothache.  The  portly  Bishop  of 
Oxford  on  his  right,  like  the  other  corner  man,  the  Bishop  of 


86  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

Salisbury,  .scribl)les  away  at  a  great  rate  in  a  huge  manuscript 
book  or  roll  of  foolscap.  On  the  left  of  the  Archbishop  sits  the 
Bishop  of  London,  Avho  severely  interrogates  the  Counsel,  and 
evidently  relishes  acting  the  schoolmaster  once  more.  The 
Bishop  of  Rochester,  sitting  on  London's  left,  supplies  the 
element  of  comedy  as  far  as  facial  expression  goes,  and  his 
wide-open  mouth  and  papers  held  in  front  of  him  lead  me  to 
expect  him  to  burst  into  song  at  any  moment.  But  where  is 
the  Bishop — the  Bishop  of  Lincoln  ?  Ah,  now  I  see  him,  in  one 
of  tliose  side  courts,  and  I  forthwith  sketch  him,  marvelling  at 
my  stupidity  in  not  identifying  him  before.  I  write  his  name 
under  the  sketch,  and  show  it  to  one  of  the  reporters.  He 
scribl)les  "  Wrono;  man "  across  it.  Done  ao;ain  !  I  write, 
"  Then  where  is  he  \ "  He  weaves  me  away,  as  Mr.  Jeune  is 
quoting  some  extraordinary  document  six  hundred  years  old  in 
reply  to  Sir  Horace  Davey's  authority,  which  only  dates  back 
five  hundred  and  ninety-nine  years.  It  suddenly  occurs  to  me 
that  the  Bishop  is  beside  his  Counsel  at  the  other  end  of  the 
long  table,  but,  alas !  there  is  a  candle  in  front  of  him.  This 
is  all  I  can  see,  so  I  make  my  way  to  the  other  side  of  the 
table,  only  to  discover  that  my  Bishop  is  an  old  lady.  I  write 
on  a  piece  of  paper,  "  Where  does  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln  sit  'i  " 
and  take  it  to  an  official.  It  is  too  dark  to  read,  so  some  time 
is  lost  while  he  takes  my  memorandum  to  a  candle.  He  looks 
across  at  me,  and  points  to  a  corner. 

At  last  I  good  I  The  old  gentleman  in  the  corner  is  in  plain 
clothes,  it  is  true,  but  still  he  looks  every  inch  a  Bishop.  I 
cautiously  approach  to  a  coign  of  vantage  close  beside  him,  and 
have  just  finished  a  careful  study  of  him,  when  he  turns  round 
to  me  and  whispers,  "  Please,  sir,  can  you  tell  me  which  is  the 
Bishop  of  Lincoln  ? "  I  shake  my  head  angrily,  and  move 
away.  This  is  really  humljug.  I'll  bide  my  time,  and  take 
Counsel's  opinion — -ril  ask  Mr.  Jeune.  He  is  just  occupied  in 
answering  the  hundred  and  seventh  (juestion  of  tlie  Bishop  of 
London,  and  is  Ix-ing  '-supported"  by  Sir  Walter  Phillimore. 
Indeed,  it  amuses  me  to  see  the  way  in  which  these  two  clever 
Counsel,  wluMi  in  a  fof>-  (and   are  we  '•lot  all  in  one  ?),  liold  an 


MY   CONFESSIONS  AS   A    SPECIAL    ARTIST.  87 

animated  leo^al  conversation  between  themselves,  and  total! v 
ignore  the  Bishops — not  that  the  latter  seem  to  mind,  for  they 
scribble  away  merrily.  An  evil  suspicion  creeps  into  my  head 
that  they  are  seizing  the  opportunity  to  write  their  next  Sunday's 
sermons. 

In  the  meantime  I  discover  that  one  of  the  little  side  courts  is 
converted  into  a  studio,  with  an  easel  and  canvas.  I  approach 
my  brother  brush,  feeling  that  he,  or  she,  or  both  (for  a  lady  and 
a  gentleman  were  jointly  at  work  upon  a  picture  of  the  Trial, 
in  black  and  white— the  black  was  visible,  but  there  w^as 
no  chance  of  seeing  the  white)  will  tell  me  wdiere  I  can  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln.  I  whisper  the  question. 
But  a  "  Hush  !  "  goes  up  from  the  H' Usher,  and  the  artists, 
sympathising  with  me  in  my  dilemma,  obtain  a  candle  and  point 
out  the  Bishop  to  me  in  their  picture.  I  slip  away  in  search 
of  that  face.  Its  owner  ought  to  be  near  his  Counsel.  The 
severe  Sir  Horace  Davey  sits  writing  letters  ;  next  him  is  the 
affable  Dr.  Tristram,  then  the  rubicund  Mr.  Danckvverts,  but  no 
Bishop — in  fact,  there  is  no  one  of  public  interest  to  be  seen ; 
probably  they  have  not  come,  as  to-day  is  to  be  a  half-holiday. 
It  is  now  one  o'clock,  and  the  Bishops  rise  to  go  to  the  Levee. 
I  pounce  upon  Francis  Jeune,  Q.C.,  and  gasp,  "  Where,  oh,  where 
is  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln  '?  Quick  !  I  want  to  sketch  him 
before  he  leaves."  '*'  Oh,  he's  not  here — never  comes  near 
the  place ! " 

The  play  is  over  for  the  day.  I  have  seen  "  Hamlet ''  with  the 
Prince  left  out. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


THE    CONFESSIONS    OF   AN    ILLUSTEATOK — A    SERIOUS    CHAPTER. 

Drawing — "  Hieroglyphics  " — Clerical  Portraiture — A  Commission  from 
General  Booth — In  Search  of  Truth — Sir  Walter  Besant — James 
Payn — Why  Theodore  Hook  was  Melancholy — "  Off  with  his  Head  " 
■ —  Reformers'  Tree  —  Happy  Thoughts  —  Christmas  Story  —  Lewis 
Carroll — The  Eev.  Charles  Lutwidge  Dodgson — Sir  John  Tenniel — 
The  Challenge — Seven  Years'  Labour — A  Puzzle  MS. — Dodgson  on 
Dress — Carroll  on  Drawing — ^Sylvie  and  Bruno — A  Composite  Picture 
—  My  Eeal  Models  —  I  am  very  Eccentric  —  My  "  Eomps  "  —  A 
Letter  from  du  Maurier — Caldecott — Tableaux — Fine  Feathers — 
Models — Fred  Barnard — The  Haystack — A  Wicket  Keeper — A  Fair 
Sitter — Neighbours — The  Post-Office  Jumble— Puzzling  the  Postmen 
— Writing  Backwards — A  Coincidence. 

1  confess  as  a  caricaturist,  surely 
I  need  not  caricature  my  con- 
fessions by  any  mock- modesty. 
Although  I  have  illustrated 
novels,  short  stories,  fairy  tales, 
poems,  parodies,  satires,  andjeux 
cT esprit,  for  the  realistic,  the 
fanciful,  the  weirdly  imaginative 
and  the  broadly  humorous,  as 
my  Punch  colleague,  E.  T. 
Milliken,  wrote,  my  more  dis- 
tinctive, natural  and  favourite 
metier  is  that  of  graphic  art. 
This  intimate  friend,  in  publish- 
ing his  "appreciation"  of  me, 
put  iu  Jiis  own  too  highly-coloured  opinion  of  my  black  and 
white  Work  in  tliis  diiection.      I  Ijlush  to  quote  it  : 

"  And  they  are  in  error  who  imagine  Mr.   Furniss's  powers  to 


MAJUBA   HILL.      DRAWN  BY   HARRY   FFRNISS. 

Itc'proJuccd  by  perminsion  of  the prop-ie'.ors  of  the  •'  Illustrated  Lonion  News." 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR.  91 

be  substantially  limited  to  political  satire  or  Parliamentary 
caricature.  Much  of  the  work  he  has  already  given  to  the 
public,  and  perhaps  more  of  that  which  he  has  not  yet  pub- 
lished, but  of  which  his  chosen  familiars  are  aware,  will  prove 
that  in  more  serious  or  imas^inative  work,  in  strong,  vivid 
realism  as  well  as  in  frolic  fancy,  in  landscape  as  well  as  in 
life,  in  the  picturesque  as  well  as  in  the  humorous,  he  can 
display  a  notable  mastery." 

This  confession  of  one  of  my  "chosen  familiars"  I  have  the 
pluck  to  reprint,  as  an  answer  to  those  unknown  strangers  who 
so  frequently  write  me  down  as  "  a  conventional  comic  draughts- 
man of  funny  ill-drawn  little  figures."  "  What  shall  I  call 
him  ?  "  said  one  ;  "a  master  of  hieroglyphics  ? "  Well,  if  I  am 
commissioned  to  draw  humorous  hieroglyphics,  I  do  my  best  to 
master  their  difficulties.  Caricature  pure  and  simple  is  not  the  art 
1  either  care  for  or  succeed  in  practising  as  well  as  I  do  in  my  less 
known  more  serious  and  more  finished  work.  When  I  joined 
Punch,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  I  had  had  nine-tenths  of  my 
time  previous  to  that  occupied  (ever  since  I  was  fifteen  years  of 
age)  in  drawing  far  more  elaborate  and  finished  work  than 
would  be  in  keeping  in  a  periodical  such  as  Punch.  Punch 
required  "  funny  little  figures,"  and  I  supplied  them  ;  but  my 
metier,  1  must  confess,  was  woik  requiring  more  demand  upon 
direct  draughtsmanship  and  power.  1  am  a  funny  man,  a 
caricaturist,  by  force  of  circumstances  ;  an  artist,  a  satirist,  and 
a  cartoonist  by  nature  and  training.  The  one  requires  technical 
knowledo;e — in  the  other,  *'  drawino'  doesn't  count."  The  more 
amateurish  the  work,  the  funnier  the  public  consider  it.  The 
serious  confession  I  have  to  make  is  that  I  have  been  mistaken 
for  a  caricaturist  in  the  accepted  and  limited  meaning  of  the 
term. 

"It  is  the  ambition  of  every  low  comedian  to  play  Hamlet, 
that  of  every  caricaturist  to  be  able  to  paint  a  picture  which 
shall  be  worthy  of  a  place  on  the  walls  of  the  National  Gallery," 
are  my  own  words  on  the  platform  ;  but  I  do  not  essay  to  play 
Hamlet  on  the  platform,  nor  do  I  paint  pictures  for  posterity  in 
my  studio.      Therefore  i  do  not  place  myself  in  the  category  of 


92 


CONFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


either,  for  I  am  neither  a  low  comedian  nor  am  I  strictly  and 
solely  a  mere  caricaturist.-  This  fact  is  perhaps  not  generally 
known  to  the  public,  but  it  is  known  to  the  publishers,  and 
when   a   Society  Church  paper   wished  to    present   a   series  of 


CANON  LIDDOX.   A  SKETCH  FROM  LIB'E. 


supj)lemeiits — portraits  of  the  leading  clergy — I  was  selected  as 
the  artist.  The  portrait  of  Canon  Liddon,  which  is  here  very 
much  reduced,  is  one  of  these. 

And    furthermore    I    received    a    commission    from    General 
Booth,  wliich  unfortunately,   through  pressure   of  work,  I  was 


THE   CO^^FESSIONS    OF  AX  ILLUSTRATOR.  93 

unable  to  undertake,  to  make  a  study  of  Mrs.  Booth,  who  was 
at  the  time  on  her  death-bed,  suffering  from  cancer,  which  the 
General  was  "  exceedingly  anxious  "  to  reproduce  and  issue  to 
his  Army,  as  he  had  "  never  yet  been  able  to  secure  a  good 
photograph,  although  frequent  attempts  had  been  made  by 
eminent  London  photographers." 

I  must  confirm  a  confession  I  made  some  years  ago  to  the 
editor  of  the  Magazine  of  Art  regarding  some  of  the  difficulties 
with  which  artists  illustrating  books  have  to  contend.  In  that 
I  questioned  whether  authors  and  artists  worked  sufficiently 
together.  Few  authors  are  as  conscientious  as  Dickens  was,  or» 
in  fact,  care  to  consult  with  their  illustrators  at  all.  In  operatic 
work  the  librettist  and  composer  must  work  hand  in  hand. 
Should  not  the  artist  do  likewise  '\ 

Undoubtedly  there  are  some  writers  who  take  great  trouble 
to  see  their  subject  from  the  artistic  standpoint.  One  sensa- 
tional writer  with  whom  1  am  acquainted  will  make  a  complete 
model  in  cardboard  of  his  "  Haunted  Grange,"  so  as  to  avoid 
absurdities  in  the  working  out  of  the  tale.  The  "  Blood-stained 
Tower "  is  therefore  always  in  its  place,  and  the  "  Assassin's 
Door "  and  "  Ghost  s  Window "  do  not  change  places,  to  the 
bewilderment  of  the  keen-witted  reader.  Many  writers,  on  the 
other  hand,  show  an  extraordinary  carelessness,  or,  shall  I  say, 
agility  '?  "  Hilarity  Hall"  or  "  Stucco  Castle"  is  supposed  to 
be  a  firm  erection,  capable  of  withstanding  storm,  or,  if  neces- 
sary, siege ;  whereas  the  artist  too  often  detects  the  author 
turning  it  inside  out  and  upside  down  to  suit  his  convenience, 
like  the  mechanical  quick-change  scenes  in  our  modern  realistic 
dramas. 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  I  have  never  found  over-conscien- 
tiousness in  seeking  to  secure  "  local  colour "  meet  with  the 
slightest  reward.  Two  instances  among  many  similar  experi- 
ences which  have  fallen  to  my  lot  will  serve  to  show  my  ground 
for  making  this  observation. 

Those  who  have  read  Sir  Walter  Besant's  delightful  but 
little  known  "All  in  a  Garden  P'air"  (it  is  interestino;  to  know 
that  this  was  semi-autobiographical,  and  that  its  original  title 


94 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


was  "  All  in  a  Garden  Green ")  will  recollect  the  minute 
description  of  the  locality  in  which  the  opening  scenes  take 
place.  The  author  and  I  "talked  it  over."  He  told  me  the 
exact  spot  where  the  story  was  laid — a  village  a  good  many 
miles  from  London.  The  next  day,  provided  with  exact  infor- 
mation, my  wife  and  I  went  by  train  to  the  station  nearest  to 
the  village  in  question,  and  then,  taking  a  "  trap,"  went  on 
a  voyage  of   discovery.      First,   however,    we    endeavoured  to 

gain    some    useful 


directions  from  tlie 
proprietor  of  the 
hotel  where  we 
lunched,  but,  to  our 
surprise,  he  knew 
of  no  such  village. 
The  driver  of  our 
"  conveyance"  was 
equally  unlearned 
concerning  the 
object  of  our  search. 
"  Strange,"  said 
I,  "how  these 
country  people 
ignore  all  the 
beauties  and  grace- 
ful associations  that 
are  around  them 
— they  don't  even  know  of  the  existence  of  this  idyllic  village." 
Nothing  daunted,  1  undertook  to  pilot  the  party  to  the  place, 
and  after  a  lovely  drive  we  reached  the  spot  where  the  village 
ought  to  be.  Here  I  saw  a  kind  of  model  hotel,  and,  I  think, 
a  shanty  of  some  description  ;  the  rest  was  an  ordinary  English 
landscape.  I  hardened  my  heart,  and  patiently  sketched  the 
building,  which,  of  course,  was  not  there  at  the  period  the  story 
referred  to,  and  som(,»  details  of  the  place  where  a  village  only 
existed  in  the  author's  imaiiination. 

When  next  I  saw  Sir  Walter  Besant,  he  tried  to   console  me 


^^^  /.u^eyA^^^--- 


^  ^/   rSSi 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR. 


95 


THE      LATE       SIR 
WALTER    BESANT. 


with  the  assurance  that  there  certainly  must  have  been  a  village 

there  some  centuries  ago  ! 

Besides  being  a  wit  and  a  delightful  conversationalist,  Sir 

Walter  was  the  most  practical  and  businesslike  of  authors.     It 

was  a  treat  to  meet  him,  as  I  frequently  did, 

walking    into    Town,    and   enjoy  his   vivacious 

humour.     I  recollect  one  morning,  speaking  of 

illustrators,    mentioning  the    fact  that    Cruik- 

shank  always  imagined  that  Dickens  had  taken 

"Oliver  Twist,''  merely  endowing  it  w4th  literary 

merit   here   and  there,   and   palming  it  off  as 

his  own  ! 

"  Ah  I  "  said  Besant,  "  how  funny  !     Do  you 

know,  I  overheard  two  of  my  little  girls  talking 

a  few  mornings  ago,  and  one  said  to  the  other, 

'Papa  does  not  write  all  his  stories,  you  know — Charlie  Green 

helps  him.' " 

(Green  was  at  the   time   illustrating   Besant's    "  Cliaplain   of 
.the  Fleet") 

My  second  instance  occurred  about  the  same  period.       The 

author  was  the  most  delightful  and  entertaining  of  literary  men 

of  our  time,  Mr.  James  Payn. 
I  was  selected  to  illustrate  the 
serial  story  in  the  Illustrated 
London  Neivs,  and  as  in  that 
also  the  author  minutely  describes 
the  scene  of  the  semi-historical 
romance,  I,  being  a  thoroughly 
conscientious  artist,  visited  James 
Payn,  then  editor  of  Co7'nhill,  in 
his  editorial  den  in  Waterloo 
Place,  to  talk  the  matter  over. 
My  notes  were  :  "Jetty — Lovers 
meet  —  Ancient  church  —  Old 
houses."     But   the  "Jetty  "  was 

the  important  object — I   must  get  that.       I   therefore  started 

for  the  South  Coast.     Again  I  was  forced  to  bow   down  before 


THE    "JETTY. 


96 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A   CARICATURIST. 


my  author's  wonderful  powers  of  imagination,  for  once  more, 
in  (-ompany  with  my  wife,  with  a  hireling  to  carry  my  sketching 
stool  and  materials,  I  walked  a  great  distance  in  search  of  the 
jetty.  Vain,  vain!  not  a  ghost  of  a  jetty  was  to  be  seen.  The 
menial  could  not  enlighten  us.  At  last  we  unearthed  the  "oldest 
inhabitant,"  who  took  us  back  to  where  a  few  sticks  in  the 
water  alone  marked  where  it  stood  "  a  many  years  ago/'  I 
tried  to  develop  some  of  the  powers  of  the  late  Professor  Owen, 

when  he  constructed  an 
animal  from  the  smallest 
bone,  and  succeeded  in 
"  evolving  "  a  jetty  from 
the  green  remains  of 
four  wooden  posts. 

I  forgave  Payn  as  I 
forgave  Besant.  Both 
men  were  as  genial  as 
they  were  eminent,  and 
but  for  the  circumstances 
of  illustrating  their 
stories  I  might  not  have 
enjoyed  their  acquaint- 
anceship. I  also  illus- 
trated Payn's  most  charm- 
ing story,  "  The  Talk  of 
the  Town,"  for  Corrihill 
Magazine.  I  never  en- 
joyed any  work  of  the 
kind  so  well  as  this — it  has  always  been  my  regret  Payn  did  not 
write  another  of  the  same  period.  I  recollect,  when  I  first  saw 
him  in  Waterloo  Place,  I  had  just  read  an  article  of  his  in  which 
he  gave  a  recipe  for  getting  rid  of  callers,  which  was  to  bring  the 
conversation  to  an  abrupt  termination,  say  absolutely  nothing, 
but  steadfastly  stare  at  your  visitor  until  he  left.  I  can  vouch 
for  its  being  a  simple  and  effective  plan. 

When    1   entered    his   editorial    sanctum    the    genial    essayist 
received  me  most  cordially,  and  looked  the  picture  of  comfort. 


ILLUSTRATION   FOR   "THE   TALK   OF  THE 

Towx  "  (reduced). 

By  permission  of  the  proprietors  of  "  Cornhill 
Magazine." 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR.  97 

surroundod  as  he  was  by  a  heterogeneous  collection  of  pipes. 
Presently,  through  the  clouds  of  smoke  through  which  he  had 
chatted  in  that  lively,  vivacious  manner  peculiarly  his  own, 
he  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  finished  pipe  and  mutely  stared 
jDoint-bhmk  at  me  till  I,  like  the  pipe,  went  out  also.  But 
before  making  my  exit  I  reminded  him  that  I  had  read  the 
article  I  refer  to,  up  to  which  he  was  no  doubt  acting,  and 
that  I  was" pleased  and  interested  that  he  practised  the  doctrine 
he  preached.  Possibly  this  remark  of  mine  was  unexpected, 
and  therefore  somewhat  disconcerted  him  for  a  moment,  for  he 
quickly  replied,  "  Not  at  all !  not  at  all !  Fact  is,  I  was  rather 
upset  before  you  came  in  by  a  miserable  man  who  called  to 
see  me,  and  at  the  moment  I  was,  d  propos  of  him,  thinking  of 
a  funny  story  about  Theodore  Hook  I  came  across  last  night 
I  never  heard  before.  Poor  Hook  was  at  a  smart  dinner 
one  evenino;  but  instead  of  beinsj  as  usual  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  party,  he  proved  the  wet  blanket  on  the  merry  meeting, 
despite  the  fact  that  he,  in  all  probability,  had  imbibed  his 
stiff  glass  of  brandy  to  get  him  up  to  his  usual  form  before 
entering  the  house  at  which  he  was  entertained.  This  most 
unusual  phase  of  Hook's  character  surprised  everybody  present, 
so  much  so  that  his  host  ventured  to  remark  that  the  volatile 
Theodore  did  not  seem  so  merry  as  usual. 

"  '  Merry  ?  I  should  think  not  !  I  should  like  to  see  anyone 
merry  who  has  gone  through  what  I  have  this  afternoon  !  ' 

"  '  What  was  that '? '  asked  everyone,  with  one  voice. 

" '  Well,  ril  tell  you,'  said  Hook.  '  I  have  just  come  up 
from  York  in  the  stag^e  coach,  and  I  was  rather  late  in  taking^ 
my  seat ;  the  top  was  occupied  to  the  full,  so  I  had  no  alterna- 
tive but  to  become  an  inside  passenger.  The  only  other 
occupant  of  the  interior  was  a  melancholy  individual  rolled  up 
in  a  corner.  He  had  donned  his  great- coat,  the  collar  of  which 
was  turned  right  up  over  his  ears.  He  stolidly  sat  there, 
never  uttering  a  word,  until  I  became  fascinated  by  his  weird 
appearance.  By-and-by  the  sun  sank  below  the  western 
horizon,  the  inside  of  the  coach  became  darker  and  darker, 
and    more    ghastly    seemed    the    cadaverous    stranger   as   the 

C. — VOL.  I.  H 


98  COXFESSIONS    OF  A   CARICATURIST. 

blackness  increased.  The  strain  was  too  much  for  me.  I  could 
not  keep  silent  another  minute. 

"  '  My  good  sir,'  I  said,  '  whatever  is  the  matter  with  you  % '  " 

" '  I'll  tell  you,'  he  slowly  muttered.     '  Some  months  ago  I 

invested  in  two  tickets  in  a  great  lottery,  but  when  I  told  my 

wife  of  the  speculation  I  had  indulged  in  she  nagged  and  nagged 

at  me  to  such  a  frightful  extent  that  at  last  I  sold  the  tickets.' 

"  '  Well  ? ' 

"  '  Well,  do  you  know,  sir,  to-day  those  two  numbers  won  the 
two  first  prizes,  and  those  two  prizes  represent  a  sum  of  money 
of  colossal  magnitude  ! ' 

" '  Goodness  gracious  me ! '  I  shouted.  '  If  that  had  happened, 
to  me  it  would  have   driven   me   to   desperation !     In  fact  I 

really  believe  that  1  should  have 
been  frantic  enough  to  cut  my 
throat ! ' 

" '  Why,  that's  just  what  I 
have  done!'  replied  the  stranger, 
as  he  turned  down  his  collar. 
'  Look  here  ! '  " 

This  ghastly  tale  reminds  me 
of  one  of  my  earliest  and  most 
"  THAT'S  JUST  WHAT  I  HAVE  DONE ! "     ^^^^^^^  expcrienccs  in  illustrating 

stories.  I  had  made  a  very  careful  drawing  to  illustrate  a  startling 
episode  in  a  novel  by  Mrs.  Henry  Wood.  Naturally  it  was 
designed  on  a  block,  and  represented  the  hero  having  just 
swallowed  poison  after  committing  a  murder.  The  face  in  the 
drawing  was  everything,  and  I  had  taken  the  greatest  pains  to 
depict  in  the  distorted  features  all  the  authoress  desired — in  fact, 
I  was  rather  proud  of  it.  The  authoress  was  pleased,  and  the 
block  was  sent  to  the  engraver.  I  was  then  about  twenty — 
photographing  a  drawing  on  to  wood  was  unknown,  and  process 
work  was  not  invented — all  drawinas  were  made  on  boxwood  and 
engraved  by  hand.  To  my  horror  the  engraver  returned  the  block 
to  me  a  week  afterwards  with  an  apologetic  note.  The  face  had 
l)een  destroyed  in  the  engniver's  hands,  and  he  had  "plugged  the 
block  " — that  is,  another  piece  of  wood  had  been  inserted  where 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR. 


99 


the  hero's  head  had  been,  and  whitened  over,  for  me  to  draw 
another.  The  rest  of  the  design  had  been  engraved.  That  face 
gone  !  'How  could  I  conjure  it  up  again  on  that  unsightly,  isolated 
patch  of  block,  with  all  the  rest  of  the  drawing  engraved  and 
therefore  my  lines  undiscernible  1  I  did  my  best.  When  it  was 
printed  it  was  seen  that  the  face  did  not  fit  on  the  neck  properly, 
and  to  my  chagrin  I  received  a  sarcastic  letter  from  the  editor  to 
inform  me  that  I  had  made  a  mistake.  The  hero  had  swallowed 
poison     and     had 

^    i 


not,  as  I  supposed, 
cut  his  head  off! 

Another  illustra- 
tion of  the  con- 
scientious illustra- 
tor in  search  of  the 
truth.  I  had  to 
introduce  the 
Reformers'  Tree, 
Hyde  Park,  into  a 
picture.  Now  we 
are  always  hearing 
about  the  Reform- 
ers' Tree  in  refer- 
ence    to     demon- 


ry 


SPECIMP^X   OF  JAMES   PAYN's   WRITING. 


strations  in  the  Park,  so  I  went  in  search  of  the  historical  stump. 
The  first  person  to  whom  I  put  a  question  as  to  its  whereabouts 
pointed  to  a  huge  tree  in  flourishing  condition.  I  had  just 
sketched  in  its  upper  branches  when  it  somehow  occurred  to 
me  that  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  ask  someone  else  and  make 
assurance  doubly  sure.     This  time  I  interrogated  a  policeman. 

"  No,  that  ain't  it ;  that  there  row  of  hoaks  is  wot  people 
calls  the  Reformers'  Tree." 

I  started  another  sketch  on  the  strength  of  this  statement, 
but  feelino-  a  bit  dubious  over  his  assertion  that  the  one  tree 
was  comprised  of  a  whole  row,  I  tackled  the  "  oldest  inhabitant," 
an  ancient  and  pensioned  park-keeper,  who  luckily  hove  in 
siQjht. 

H  2 


100 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


"  Hover  there,"  he  replied,  gruffly,  pointing  to  a  stump  that 
resembled  the  sole  remaining  molar  the  old  man  possessed. 

This  stump  was  picturesque.  It  must  be  the  Reformers'  Tree. 
Result — another  sketch,  which  I  showed  to  the  gatekeeper  at 
the  Marble  Arch. 

"Reformers'  Tree?  Why,  there  ain't  no  such  thing  in  the 
Park."  And  I  really  believe  there  isn't.  It  is  a  myth,  and 
merely  exists  in  the  fertile  brain  of  the  descriptive  author  or  the 
imao'ination  of  the  as;itator. 

After  James  Payn's  "  Talk  of  the  Town "  no  book  has 
given  me  such  pleasure  to  illustrate 
as  F.  C.  Burnand's  ''  Incompleat  Angler." 
The  combination  of  the  picturesque- 
ness  of  Isaak  Walton  with  the  humour 
of  Burnand  could  not  be  otherwise, 
but  most  unfortunately  the  form  of  its 
publication  ruined  the  effect  of  the 
drawings.  Over  this,  too,  the  author 
and  I  talked — no,  not  exactly — to  be 
exact  we  laughed  over  it.  I  dined  with 
Burnand,  and  afterwards  in  his  study 
he  read  it  to  me,  and  as  he  frankly 
admitted  he  never  laughed  so  much  at 
anything  before. 
The  illustrator's  difficulties  by  no  means  end  when  the  author 
is  satisfied.  Many  authors  give  you  every  facility,  and  hamper 
you  with  no  impossibilities ;  but  then  steps  in  the  editor, 
esj^ecially  if  he  be  the  editor  of  a  "  goody  "  magazine.  Novels 
will  be  novels,  and  love  and  lovers  will  find  their  way  even  into 
the  immaculate  j^ages  of  our  monthly  elevators.  I  once  found 
it  so,  and  certainly  I  thought  that  here  was  plain  sailing.  A 
tender  interview  at  the  o-arden  oatc  She  "  sio;hed  and  looked 
down  as  Charles  Tliorndike  took  her  hand  "—unavoidable  and 
not  unacceptal)lc  subject.  Lovers  are  all  commonplace  young 
men  with  large  eyes,  long  legs,  and  small  moustaches  (villains' 
moustaches  grow  apace)  ;  moreover,  lovers,  I  believe,  generally 
take  care  to  avoid  observation  ;  but  no  I  it  a])pears  that  "  our 


THP]    TYPICAL   LOVERS   IN 
ILliUSTRATIONS  OF  NOVELS 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR.  101 

subscribers "    have   a   stern    code   which   may   not   be   lightly 
infringed.     A  letter  from  the  editor  rebukes  my  worldly  ways  : 

**  Dear  Sir, — Will  you  kindly  give  Charles  Thorndike  a  beard,  and 
show  an  aunt  or  uncle  or  some  chaperon  in  the  distance ;  the  subject  and 
treatment  is  hardly  suitable  otherwise  to  our  young  readers.'' 

Sometimes  a  publisher  steps  in  and  arranges  everything, 
regardless  of  all  the  author  and  artist  may  cherish. 

Years  ago  a  well-known  but  not  very  prosperous  publisher 
sent  for  me,  and  spoke  as  follows  : 

"Now,  Mr.  F.,  what  I  want  is  to  knock  the  B.P.  with  Christ- 
mas. The  story  is  all  blood  and  murder,  but  don't  mind  that — 
you  must  supply  the  antidote ;  put  in  the  holly  and  mistletoe, 
plenty  of  snow  and  plum-pudding  (the  story  was  a  seaside  one 
in  summer  time).  I  like  John  Tenniel's  work — give  us  a  bit  of 
him,  with  a  dash  of  Du  Maurier  and  a  sprinkling  of  Leech 
here  and  there  ;  but  none  of  your  Rembrandt  effects — they  are 
too  dark,  and  don't  print  up  well.  Never  mind  what  the  author 
says  ;  he  hasn't  made  it  Christmas,  so  you  must !  " 

It  is  equally  difficult  to  comply  with  an  editorial  request  such 
as  this  :  "  The  story  I  send  you  is  as  dull  as  ditch-water ;  do 
please  read  it  over  and  illustrate  it  with  lively  pictures." 

But  some  authors  are  their  own  publishers,  and  they  are  then 
generally  more  careful  of  the  illustrations.  Perhaps  the  most 
exacting  of  all  authors  was  "Lewis  Carroll." 

(he  name  of  Charles  Lutwidge  Dodgson  is 
practically  unknown  outside  of  Oxford 
University,  where  he  was  mathematical 
lecturer  of  Christ  Church  ;  but  the  name 
and  fame  of  "  Lewis  Carroll,"  author  of 
those  inimitable  books  for  children,  both 
young  and  old,  "  Alice's  Adventures  in 
Wonderland"  and  "Through  the  Looking- 
ii'lass  and  what  Alice  found  there,"  are 
known  and  beloved  all  over  the  world. 
His  first  book  for  children,  "  Alice's  Adventures,"  was  published 
at  a  time    exactly  to    suit   me.       I  was  just  eleven  —  the  age 


102  COXFESSIOXS    OF   A    CARWATURIHT. 

to  be  first  impressed  by  the  pen  of  Carroll  and  the  pencil 
of  Tenniel. 

When  I,  a  little,  a  very  little  boy  in  knickerbockers,  first 
enjoyed  the  adventures  of  Alice  and  worshipped  the  pen  and  the 
pencil  which  recorded  them,  I  little  thought  I  would  some  day 
work  hand  in  hand  with  the  author,  and  when  that  day  did 
arrive  I  regretted  that  I  had  not  been  born  twenty-two  years 
before  I  had,  for  for  me  to  follow  Tenniel  was  quite  as  difficult 
and  unsatisfactory  a  task  as  for  Carroll  to  follow  Carroll.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  I  was  conscious  of  this,  and  Lewis  Carroll 
was  not.  Fortunately  for  me  Sylvie  was  not  like  her  prototype 
Alice;  the  illustrations  for  Sylvie  would  not  have  suited  Tenniel 
as  Alice  did.  I  therefore  did  not  fear  comparison,  but  what  I 
did  fear  was  that  Carroll  would  not  be  Carroll,  and  Carroll 
wasn't — he  was  Dodgson.  I  wish  I  had  illustrated  him  when  he 
was  Carroll ;  that  he  was  not  the  Carroll  of  ''  Alice  "  is  plainly 
indicated  in  his  life  in  the  following  passage:'""  "  The  publication 
of  '  Sylvie  and  Bruno '  marks  an  epoch  in  its  author's  life,  for  it 
was  th(  publication  of  all  the  ideals  and  sentiments  which  he 
held  most  dear.  It  was  a  book  with  a  definite  purpose;  it 
would  be  more  true  to  say  with  several  definite  purposes.  For 
this  very  reason  it  is  not  an  artistic  triumph  as  the  two  'Alice' 
books  undoubtedly  are  ;  it  is  on  a  lower  literary  level,  there  is 
no  unity  in  the  story.  But  from  a  higher  standpoint,  that  of 
the  Christian  and  the  philanthropist,  the  book  is  the  best  thing 
he  ever  wrote.  It  is  a  noble  effort  to  uphold  the  right,  or  what 
he  thought  to  be  the  right,  without  fear  of  contempt  or 
unpopularity.  The  influence  which  his  earlier  books  had  given 
him  he  was  determined  to  use  in  asserting  neglected  truths. 

"  Of  course  the  story  has  other  features — delightful  nonsense 
not  surpassed  by  anything  in  '  Wonderland,'  childish  prattle  with 
all  the  charm  of  reality  about  it,  and  pictures  which  may  fairly 
be  said  to  rival  those  of  Sir  John  Tenniel.  Had  these  been  all, 
the  book  would  have  been  a  great  success.  As  things  are, 
there  are  prol)ably  hundreds  of  readers  who  have  been  scared  by 


*  "The    Life    and     Letters    of    Lewis    CaiToll,"    by    Stuart    Dodgson 
Collingwood  (Fislier  Unwiii). 


THE   COFFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR. 


103 


the  religious  arguments  and  political  discussions  which,  make  up 
a  large  part  of  it,  and  who  have  never  discovered  that  Sylvie  is 
just  as  entrancing  a  personage  as  Alice  when  you  get  to  know 
her/' 

The  character  of  the  book  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to 
me.  I  did  not  want  to  illustrate  a  book  of  his  with  any 
"■'  purpose  " 

other  than  the  M^^^^dL^  t^fcl^  ^     ^  ^^  ^^^ 

purpose       of  v^AoL         /  X^'  y^-^^'^'^'^^ 

delightful  ^^'^  "^  ^-"^  9^-U^  zijL.  ^».<^ 
amusement,  as  ''t-^M.^e^  Ae^z,^   ^sfc^^ 

"Alice "  was. 
Tenniel  had 
point  -  blank 
refused  to  illus- 
trate another 
story  for  Car- 
roll —  he  was, 
Tenniel  told 
me,  "  impos- 
sible "  ■ —  and 
Carroll  evi- 
dently was  not 
satisfied  with 
other  artists  he 
had  tried,  as 
he  wrote  me  : 
"  I  have  a  con- 
siderable mass 
of     chaotic 

materials  for  a  story,  but  have  never  had  the  heart  to  go  to 
w^ork  to  construct  the  story  as  a  whole,  owing  to  its  seeming  so 
hopeless  that  I  should  ever  find  a  suitable  artist.  Now  that  you 
are  found,"  etc.  That  was  in  1885,  and  we  worked  together  for 
seven  years.  Tenniel  and  other  artists  declared  I  would  not 
work  with  Carroll  for  seven  weeks  !  I  accepted  the  challenge, 
but  I,  for  that  purpose,  adopted  quite  a  new  method.     No  artist 


^-^^^^  Ar^. 


5kl^    ^r^tU^  -^.-— 


^yiJyie,  c/h 


INSTEUCTIONS  IN  A  LETTER  FROM  LEWIS  CARROLL. 


104  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

is  more  matter-of-fact  or  businesslike  than  myself :  to  Carroll  I 
was  not  Ily.  F.,  ])ut  someone  else,  as  he  was  someone  else.  I 
was  wilful  and  erratic,  bordering  on  insanity.  AVe  therefore  got 
on  splendidly. 

Of  course  it  was  most  interesting  to  me  to  study  such  a 
genius  at  such  a  time,  and  in  recording  my  experiences  and 
impressions  of  Lewis  Carroll  my  object  is  not  so  much  to  deal 
with  the  actual  illustration  to  those  ill-conceived  books  "Sylvia 
and  Bruno,"  but  to  deal  with  my  impressions  of  the  man 
obtained  l>y  working  with  him  for  so  long,  for  to  have  known 
the  man  was  even  as  Q;reat  a  treat  as  to  read  his  books.  Lewis 
Carroll  was  as  unlike  any  other  man  as  his  books  were  unlike 
any  other  author's  books.  It  was  a  relief  to  meet  the  pure 
simple,  innocent  dreamer  of  children,  after  the  selfish  commercial 
mind  of  most  authors.  Carroll  was  a  wit,  a  gentleman,  a  bore 
and  an  egotist — and,  like  Hans  Andersen,  a  spoilt  child.  It  is 
recorded  of  Andersen  that  he  actually  shed  tears,  even  in  late 
life,  should  the  cake  at  tea  be  handed  to  anyone  before  he 
chose  the  largest  slice.  Carroll  was  not  selfish,  but  a  liberal- 
minded,  liberal-handed  philanthropist,  but  his  egotism  was  all  but 
second  childhood. 

He  informed  my  wife  that  she  was  the  most  privileged 
woman  in  the  world,  for  she  knew  the  man  who  knew  his 
(Lewis  Carroll's)  ideas — that  ought  to  content  her.  She  must  not 
see  a  picture  or  read  a  line  of  the  MS.  ;  it  was  sufficient  for  her 
to  gaze  at  me  outside  of  my  studio  with  admiration  and  respect, 
as  the  only  man  besides  Lewis  Carroll  himself  with  a  knowledge 
of  Lewis  Carroll's  forthcomino;  work.  Furthermore  he  sent  rae 
an  elaborate  document  to  sign  committing  myself  to  secrecy. 
This  I  indignantly  declined  to  sign.  "  My  word  was  as  good  as 
my  bond,"  I  said,  and,  striking  an  attitude,  I  hinted  that  I 
would  "strike,"  inasmuch  as  I  would  not  work  for  years  isolated 
from  my  wife  and  friends.  I  was  therefore  no  doubt  looked 
upon  by  him  as  a  lunatic.  That  w\a8  what  I  wanted.  I  was 
allowed  to  show  my  wife  the  drawings,  and  he  wrote  :  "  For  my 
own  part  I  have  shown  ncme  of  the  MS.  to  anybody  ;  and, 
though  1  have  let  some  sj^ecial  friends  see  the  pictures,  I  have 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR.  105 

uniformly  declined  to  explaiji  them.  '  May  I  ask  so-and-so  ?  ' 
they  enquire.  '  Certainly  ! '  I  reply  ;  "  you  may  ask  as  many 
questions  as  you  like  !  '     That  is  all  they  get  out  of  me." 

But  his  egotism  carried  him  still  further.  He  was  determined 
no  one  should  read  his  MS.  but  he  and  I  ;  so  in  the  dead  of 
night  (he  sometimes  wrote  up  to  4  a.m.)  he  cut  his  MS.  into 
horizontal  strips  of  four  or  five  lines,  then  placed  the  whole  of 
it  in  a  sack  and  shook  it  up ;  taking  out  piece  by  piece,  he 
pasted  the  strips  down  as  they  happened  to  come.  The  result, 
in  such  an  MS.,  dealing  with  nonsense  on  one  page  and  theology 
on  another,  was  audacious  in  the  extreme,  if  not  absolutely 
profane — for  example  : 

"  And  I  found  myself  repeating,  as  I  left  the  Church,  the  words  of  Jacob, 
when  he  '  aivaked  out  of  his  deep,'  surely  the  Lord  is  in  this. 
"  And  once  more  those  shrill  discordant  tones  rang  out: — 
"  '  He  thought  he  saw  a  Banker's  Clerk 
Descending  from  a  bus  ; 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was — 
A  Hippopotamus.'  " 

These  incongruous  strips  were  elaborately  and  mysteriously 
marked  with  numbers  and  letters  and  various  hieroglyphics,  to 
decipher  which  would  really  have  turned  my  assumed  eccen- 
tricity into  positive  madness.  I  therefore  sent  the  whole  MS. 
back  to  him,  and  again  threatened  to  strike  !  This  had  the 
desired  effect.  I  then  received  MS.  I  could  read,  although 
frequently  puzzled  by  its  being  mixed  up  with  Euclid  and 
problems  in  abstruse  mathematics. 

I  soon  discovered  that  I  had  undertaken  a  far  more  difBcult 
task  than  I  anticipated,  for  in  the  first  letter  of  instructions 
I  received  from  the  author  he  frankly  acknowledged  I  had  my 
work  "cut  out."  "Cut  out"  suggests  dressmaking,  the  very 
subject  first  chosen  for  discussion  and  correspondence. 

The  extraordinary  workings  of  this  unique  mind  are  shown 
by  quotations  from  his  letters  to  me  : 

"  I  think  I  had  better  explain  part  of  the  plot,  as  to  these  two — Sylvie 
and  Bruno.  They  are  not  fairies  right  through  the  book — but  children . 
All  these  conditions  make  their  dress  rather  a  puzzle.     They  mustn't  have 


106 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


icings  ;  that  is  clear.  And  it  must  be  quite  the  common  dress  of  London 
hfe.  It  should  be  as  fanciful  as  possible,  so  as  just  to  be  presentable  in 
Society.  The  friends  might  be  able  to  say  '  What  oddly-dressed  children  ! ' 
but  they  oughtn't  to  say  '  They  are  not  human  ! ' 

"  Now  I  think  you'll  say  you  have  '  got  your  work  cut  out  for  you,'  to 
invent  a  suitable  dress  !  " 


How  I  wish  I  had  had  those  dresses  cut  out  for  me  !     The 
above   instructions  were  quickly  followed  by  other  suggestions 

which  added  to 
my  already  scanty 
idea  of  a  costume 
suitable  to  Ken- 
sington Gardens 
and  to  fixiryland ! 
I  was  thinking 
this  difficulty 
would  be  lessened 
if  the  story  took 
place  in  winter, 
when  I  received 
another  letter, 
which  I  must 
frankly  confess 
rather    alarmed 


SPECIMEN  OF  LEAVIS  CARROLL'S  DRAAVING  AND  WRITING. 


me  : 

"  As  to  the  dresses 
of  these  children  in 
their  fairy  state  (we 
shall  sometimes 
have  them  mixing 
in  Society,  and 
supposed  to  be  real  children  ;  and  for  that  they  must,  I  suppose,  be  dressed 
as  inordinary  life,  but  eccentrically,  so  as  to  make  a  little  distinction).  I 
wish  I  dared  dispense  with  cdl  costume  ;  naked  cliildren  are  so  perfectly 
pure  and  lovely,  but  Mrs.  Grundy  would  be  furious — it  would  never  do. 
Then  the  question  is,  how  little  dress  will  content  her  ?  Bare  legs  and 
feet  we  must  have,  at  any  rate.  I  so  entirely  detest  that  monstrous  fashion 
iiigh  heels  (and  in  fact  have  planned  an  attack  on  it  in  this  very  book), 
that  I  cannot  possibly  allow  my  sweet  little  heroine  to  be  victimised  by  it." 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR.  107 

Another  monstrous  fashion  he  condemns  refers  to  a  picture 
of  his  grown-up  heroine  in  London  Society  : 

"Could  you  cut  off  those  high  shoulders  from  her  sleeves?  Why 
should  we  pay  any  deference  to  a  hideous  fashion  that  will  be  extinct  a 
year  hence  ?  Next  to  the  unapproachable  ugliness  of  '  crinoline,'  I  think 
these  high-shouldered  sleeves  are  the  worst  things  invented  for  ladies  in 
our  time.  Imagine  how  horrified  they  would  be  if  one  of  their  daughters 
were  really  shaped  like  that !  " 

I  did  make  a  note  of  a  horrified  mother  with  a  nineteenth 
century  malformation,  but  I  did  not  send  it  to  the  author,  as 
it  struck  me,  when  re-reading  his  letter,  he  was  possibly  serious. 
Still     we     had 
Sylvie's     dress, 

Mrs.      Grundy,  "IT  ^/y^c^^^^^-—^^^  O 

crinolines,  and 
high  heels  to 
discuss : 

"As  to  your 
Sylvie  I  am 
charmed  wath  your 
idea  of  dressing 
her   in   xolfiite ;    it 

exactly  fits  my  original  sketch  by  lewis  carroll  of  his  charming 
own  idea  of  her;  HERO  AND  heroine. 

I  want  her  to  be 

a  sort  of  embodiment  of  Purity.  So  I  think  that,  in  Society,  she  should  be 
wholly  in  white- — white  frock  ('  clinging  '  certainly;  I  liate  crinoline  fashion): 
also  I  think  we  might  venture  on  making  hex  fairy  dress  transparent.  Don't 
you  think  we  might  face  Mrs.  Grundy  to  that  extent  ?  In  fact  I  think 
Mrs.  G.  would  be  fairly  content  at  finding  her  dressed,  and  would  not 
mind  whether  the  material  was  silk,  or  muslin,  or  even  gauze.  One  thing 
more.  Please  don't  give  Sylvie  high  heels  !  They  are  an  abomination 
to  me." 

Then  for  months  we  corresponded  about  the  face  of  the 
Heroine  alone.  My  difficulty  was  increased  by  the  fact  that 
the  fairy  child  Sylvie  and  the  Society  grown-up  Lady  Muriel 
were  one  and  the  same  person !  So  I  received  reams  of  written 
descriptions  and  piles  of  useless  photographs  intended  to  inspire 
me  to  draw  witli  a  few  lines  a  face  embodying  his  ideal  in  a 


108 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


space  not  larger  than  a  threepenny-piece.  By  one  post  I  would 
receive  a  batch  of  photographs  of  some  young  lady  Lewis  Carroll 
fancied  had  one  feature,  or  half  a  feature,  of  that  ideal  he  had 
conjured  up  in  his  own  mind  as  his  heroine. 

He  invited  me  to  visit  friends  of  his,  and  strangers  too,  from 
John  o'  Groats  to  Land's  End,  so  as  to  collect  fragments  of  faces. 
A  propos  of  this  I  wrote  in  an  artists'  magazine  a  brief  account 
of  artists'  difficulties  with  the  too  exacting  author.  (It  is  quite 
safe  to  write  anything  about  Judges  and  Dons  :  they  never  read 
anything.)  I  described  how  I  received  the  author's  recipe  for 
constructino;  the  ideal  heroine.  I  am  not  to  take  o?ie  model  for 
the  lady-child  or  child -lad}.  I  am  to  take  sevei^al;  for  all  know 
no  face — at  least,  no  face  with  expression,  or  with  plenty  of  life 

or    good     abilities, 


otuzje. 


^ 


LEWIS   CAREOLL  S   NOTE   TO   ME   FOR   A    PATHETIC 
PICTURE. 


or  when  showing 
depth  of  rehgious 
thought— is  perfect. 
I  am  therefore  to 
go  to  Eastbourne 
to  see  and  study  the 
face  of  Miss  Matilda 
Smith,  in  a  pastry- 
cook's shop,  for  the  eyes.  I  am  to  visit  Eastbourne  and  eat  buns 
and  cakes,  gazing  the  while  into  the  beauteous  eyes  of  Miss  Smith. 
Then  in  Glasgow  there  is  a  Miss  O'Grady,  "with  oh,  such  a  perfect 
nose  !  Could  I  run  up  to  Scotland  to  make  a  sketch  of  it  1  "  A 
letter  of  introduction  is  enclosed,  and,  as  a  precaution,  I  am 
enjoined  that  I  "must  not  mind  her  squint."  But  I  do  mind,  and 
I  am  sure  the  blemish  would  sadly  mar  my  j)roper  judgment  of 
the  lovely  feature  for  gazing  on  which  those  eyes  have  lost  their 
rectitude.  For  the  ears  a  journey  to  Brighton  to  see  Miss 
Robinson,  the  Vicar's  daughter,  is  recommended.  No,  she  may 
listen,  think  I,  to  the  "  sad  sea-waves,"  or  to  her  father's  sermons, 
but  never  to  any  flattery  from  me.  The  mouth  I  shall  find  in 
Cardiff — not  an  English  or  Welsh  mouth,  but  a  sweet  Spaniard's 
Seiiora  Niccolomino,  the  daughter  of  a  merchant  there.  In 
imagination  I  picture  that  cigarette  held  so  lovingly  in  those 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR.  109 

perfect  lips.  But  I  am  to  draw  an  English  heroine  of  fifteen 
innocent  summers — how  those  curly  wreaths  of  pearly  smoke 
would  disenchant  my  mind  of  the  spell  of  youth  and  innocence  1 
For  the  hair  I  must  go  to  Brighton  ;  for  the  figure  to  a  number 
of  different  places.  In  fact,  my  author  had  mapped  out  a 
complete  tour  for  me.  Had  he  never  heard  the  old  story  of  the 
artist  who  was  determined  to  paint  a  perfectly  correct  figure, 
strictly  in  accordance  with  the  orthodox  rules  of  art  ?  As  he 
painted  a  portion  he  covered  it  up,  and  so  went  on  until  the 
figure  was  complete.  When  it  was  finished  he  tore  ofi"  the 
covering.  The  result  was  hideous !  He  went  mad !  I  feel 
sure  that  fate  would  have  been  mine  had  1  attempted  to  carry 
out  Lewis  Carroll's  instructions.  1  therefore  worked  on  my  own 
lines  with  success.  As  his  biographer  states  :  "  Meanwhile,  with 
much  interchange  of  correspondence  between  author  and  artist, 
the  pictures  for  the  new  fairy  tale,  '  Sylvie  and  Bruno,'  were 
being  gradually  evolved.  Each  of  them  was  subjected  by  Lewis 
Carroll  to  the  most  minute  criticism — hypercriticism,  perhaps, 
occasionally."  Still  he  was  enthusiastic  in  his  praise,  and 
absurdly  generous  in  his  thanks.  He  was  jealous  that  1  would 
not  disclose  to  him  who  my  model  was  for  Sylvie.  When 
dining  with  us  many  a  smile  played  over  the  features  of  my 
children  when  he  cross-questioned  me  on  this  point.  Repeatedly 
he  wrote  to  me  :  "  How  old  is  your  model  for  Sylvie  1  And 
may  I  have  her  name  and  address  ?  "  "  My  friend  Miss  E.  G. 
Thomson,  an  artist  great  in  '  fairies,'  would  be  glad  to  know 
of  her,  I'm  sure,"  and  so  on. 

The  fairy  Sylvie  was  my  own  daughter  !  All  the  children  in 
his  books  I  illustrated  were  my  own  children  ;  yet  this  fact 
never  struck  him !  He  visited  us  in  the  country  when  I  was  at 
work,  and  I  soon  afterwards  received  the  following  letter  : 

"  Thanks.  I  was  not  aware  that  the  boy,  w^hose  photo  I  sent  you,  had 
far-apart  eyes.  If  you  think  (and  you  are  quite  the  best  judge  of  the 
point)  that  these  eyes  are  needed  in  order  to  give  to  the  face  the  fun  and 
roguery  I  want  expressed,  by  all  means  retain  them. 

"  It  had  occurred  to  me  to  write  and  beg  that,  if  Arundel  did  not  furnish 
all  requisite  models  for  drawing  from  life,  you  would  let  all  portions  of 


110 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


pictures  which  would  have  to  be  done  without  models  or  wait  till  you  return 
to  town,  wait.  But  as  I  think  you  definitely  told  me  that  you  never  do  the 
finished  pictm-es  except  from  life,  I  presume  the  petition  to  be  superfluous." 

When  I  received  this  letter  at  Arundel  my  second  boy  was 
sittiuo;  in  his  bathino-  costume  on  a  garden-roller  on  the  lawn 

o  o  o 

for  a  picture  of  Bruno  sitting  on  a  dead  mouse.     I  was  chaffing 


SYLVIE   AND   BRUNO. 


MY   ORIGIXAL   DRAVk'IXG    FOR   LEWIS   CARROLL, 

{Never  jnibJished.) 


my  model  about  flirting  witli  a  young  lady  he  met  at  a  children's 
garden  party,  and  threatened  to  inform  his  sweetheart  in 
London,  when  he  assured  me  with  knowingness,  "  Fact  is,  papa, 
the  young  lady  here  is  all  right  for  the  country,  you  know — but 
she  W'Ould  never  do  in  town  I  " 

It  was  the  same  idea  as  Lewis  Carroll's  about  models. 

As  I  liave  brought  my  family  into  this,  I  may  mention  that 
there  is  one  })ictuic  in  'SSylvieand  Bruno  "  (vol.  i.,p.  134)  which 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR. 


Ill 


brings  back  to  me  the  only  sorrowful  hour  I  had  in  connection 

with  the  otlierwise  enjoyable  work.  My  wife  was  very  ill — so  ill 

it  was  a  question  of  life  and  death.     Expert  opinion  was  called 

in,  and  the  afternoon  I  had  to  make  that  drawing — with  my  own 

children  as  models — the  "  consultation  "  was  being  held  in  my 

wife's  room.  Carroll  was  on  his  way  from  Oxford  to  see  the  work, 

and  I  was  drawing  against  time.   It's  the  old  story  of  the  clown  with 

the  sick  wife.     Caricaturists 

are  after  all  but  clowns  of  the 

pencil.      They  must  raise  a 

laugh  whatever  their  state  of 

mind  may  be.     For  a  long 

time    I   never   would    show 

Lewis  Carroll  my  work,  for 

the  simple  reason  I  did  not 

do  it.     He  thought  I  was  at 

work,  but  I  was  not.     That's 

where  my  acting  eccentricity 

came    in.     I    knew   that   I 

would    have    to    draw    the 

subjects  "right  off,"  not  one 

a    month    or     one    in     six 

months.    Correspondence  for 

three  months,  as  a  rule,  led  to 

work  for  one  week.     Isolated 

verse  I  did  let  him  have  the 

illustrations  for,  but  not  the 

body  of  the  book.     This  was  my  only  chance,  and  I  arrived 

at  this  secrecy  by  the  following  bold  stroke. 

Lewis  Carroll  came  from  Oxford  one  evening,  early  in  the 
history  of  the  work,  to  dine,  and  afterwards  to  see  a  batch  of 
work.  He  ate  little,  drank  little,  but  enjoyed  a  few  glasses  of 
sherry,  his  favourite  wine.  "  Now%"  he  said,  "for  the  studio!  " 
I  rose  and  led  the  way.  My  wife  sat  in  astonishment.  She 
knew  I  had  nothing  to  show.  Through  the  drawing-room,  down 
the  steps  of  the  conservatory  to  the  door  of  my  studio.  My 
hand    is    on    the    handle.      Through  excitement   Lewis  Carroll 


I   GO  MAD  ! 


112  CONFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

stammers  worse  tlian  ever.  Now  to  see  the  work  for  his  o^reat 
book  !  I  pause,  turn  my  back  to  the  closed  door,  and  thus 
address  the  astonished  Don  :  "  Mr.  Dodgson,  I  am  very  eccen- 
tric— I  cannot  help  it !  Let  me  explain  to  you  clearly,  before 
you  enter  my  studio,  that  my  eccentricity  sometimes  takes  a 
violent  form.  If  I,  in  showing  my  work,  discover  in  your  face 
the  slightest  sign  that  you  are  not  absolutely  satisfied  with 
any  particle  of  this  work  in  progress,  the  ivhole  of  it  goes 
into  the  fire  !  It  is  a  risk  :  will  you  accept  it,  or  will  you 
wait  till  I  have  the  drawings  quite  finished  and  send  them  to 
Oxford  ?  " 

"  I — I — I  ap — appreciate  your  feelings — I — I — should  feel 
the  same  myself.     I  am  off  to  Oxford  !  "  and  he  went. 

I  sent  him  drawings  as  they  were  finished,  and  each  parcel 

^  CvvY^     t^u>k^^*^r^  (^  P^   ^^^   ^  ^ 

brought  back  a  budget  of  letter- writing,  each  j)age  being  carefully 
numbered.  This  is  the  top  of  page  5  in  his  49,874th  letter. 
I  am  not  sure  if  I  received  all  the  remaining  49,873  letters  in 
the  seven  years.  To  meet  him  and  to  work  for  him  was  to  me 
a  great  treat.  I  put  up  with  his  eccentricities — real  ones,  not 
sham  like  mine. — I  put  up  Avith  a  great  deal  of  boredom,  for  he 
was  a  bore  at  times,  and  I  worked  over  seven  years  with  his 
illustrations,  in  which  the  actual  working  hours  would  not  have 
occupied  me  more  than  seven  weeks,  purely  out  of  respect  for 
his  genius.  I  treated  him  as  a  problem,  and  I  solved  him,  and 
had  he  lived  I  would  probably  have  still  worked  with  him.  He 
remunerated  me  liberally  for  my  work  ;  still,  he  actually  pro- 
posed that  in  addition  I  should  partake  of  the  profits  ;  his 
gratitude  was  overwhelming.  "  I  am  grateful ;  and  I  feel  sure 
that  if  'pictures  could  sell  a  book  '  Sylvic  and  Bruno '  would 
sell  like  wildfire." 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR. 


113 


Perhaps  the  most  pleasant  confession  I  have  to  make  is  my 
fondness  for  children.  They  always  interest  and  amuse  me  more 
than  "  grown-ups."  The  commonplace  talk  is  to  them  unknown ; 
it  is  full  of  surprises. 

Perhaps  the  nursery's  record  of  my  family  is  not  lono-er  or 
any  more  interesting  than  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  youngsters 
of  any  other  family;  still  a  few  extracts  may  interest  those  who, 
like  myself,  are  interested  in  first  impressions. 

My  eldest,  just  entering  on  his  teens,  had  as  compajiions  two 
brothers  and  one  sister.  Hearing  there  was  an  addition  to 
this  little  family  group,  he,  dressed  in 
flannels,  ran  into  my  studio,  bat  in  hand, 
''Papa,  is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl '{  " 

"A  boy." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad.  I  do  want  a 
wicket-keeper,  and  Dorothy  can't  wicket- 
keep  a  bit." 

A  stoutly-made  little  fellow  of  eight, 
to  his  mother,  who  happened  to  be 
extremely  thin  : 

*'0h,  mother,  I  do  believe  you  must  be 
the  very  sweetest  woman  in  the  world  I  " 

"  Thanks  very  much,  Lawrence.  But 
why  so  affectionate  ?   What  do  you  want  ? " 

"  I  don't  want  anything.  I  only  know  you  must  be  the  very 
sweetest  woman  in  the  world." 

"  Ecally,  you  are  too  flattering.  Why  this  sudden  outburst 
of  affection  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  know,  I've  been  thinking  over  the  old,  old  saying, 
*  The  nearer  the  bone  the  sweeter  the  meat'  " 

Children,  I  think,  have  the  art  of  "  leading  up  "  to  jokes 
better  than  adults.  They  hear  some  strange  remark,  they 
naturally  analyse  it,  and  it  suggests  an  application.  For 
instance,  this  brat  possibly  objected  to  some  portion  of  meat  at 
table.  His  mother  had  reminded  of  the  old  saying,  "  The  nearer 
the  bone  the  sweeter  the  meat."  Thin  mother, — there's  the 
iipplication. 

C. — VOL.  T.  I 


"  I   DO   WANT  A  WICKET- 
KEEPER  !  " 


lU 


COXFESS/OXS    OF  J    CAJUCATFRIST. 


Oiic  of  my  youngsters  ran  into  the  drawing-room  at  five 
o'clock  tea.     A  lady  visitor  thus  addressed  him  : 

"  Come  here,  my  little  man.     I  suppose  v/hen  you  grow  up 
you  will  be  an  artist,  like  your  father "f 
"  ^ly  ftither  is  not  an  artist." 
"  Oh,  my  dear,  he  is  an  artist." 

"  Oh,   no,  no,   no,  my  father  is  not  an  artist— he's  only  a 

black  and  white  man. 
I  am  ooiiior  to  be  an 
artist  in  all   colours." 

My  own  children  have 
been  my  models,  not 
only  for  Lewis  Carroll's 
books,  but  for  all  my 
drawings  of  children. 
I  have  three  boys  and 
one  girl.  Dorothy  is 
now  a  successful  artist, 
and  Lawrence  is,  at  the 
age  of  eighteen,  a  pro- 
fessional draughtsman 
of  mechanical  subjects ; 
my  youngest  is  just 
out  of  his  teens.  Their 
portraits  manifolded 
will  be  found  in 
the  page  sketch  from 
' '  Eomps. "  Du  Maurier 
wrote  me  a  most  graceful 
appreciation  of  these  books,  which,  considering  his  delightful 
pictures  of  children  in  Pioicli,  was  most  gratifying  to  me. 

An  artist  for  whose  work  I  have  the  greatest  admiration  was 
the  late  Ivandolph  Caldccott,  and  the  only  occasion  on  which  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  liini  was  of  a  semi-theatrical  kind. 
It  was  at  one  of  tlie  "Artists'  Tableaux  '  wliich  were  given  in 
London  some  years  ago.  Li  those  produced  in  Piccadilly  I 
took  no  part,  and  the  entertainment  to  wliich  I  refer  was  held 


®!*s&  ^^!^j«^  "Jvijtf^sf ; 


rORTIOX   OF   LETTHll   FROJI  LAWllENCE,  AGE    ',). 


1  'I 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR. 


117 


at  the  Mansion  House.  At  the  last  moment,  in  order  to 
complete  one  of  the  pictures,  a  portly  Dutchman  Avas  required, 
and  a  telegram  was  despatched  to  me  to  enquire  whether  I 
would  represent  the  character.  A  dress,  which  was  not  a  very 
good  fit,  was  provided  for  me  by  the  costumier  of  the  show, 
and   with    the 

i§tb  (&xtt'zt  %n\x%tf 

ilam^psttai  j|«allj. 


aid  of  a  little 
padding,  a 
good  deal  of 
rouge,  a  long 
clay  pipe,  and 
a  bottle  of 
schnapps,  I 
managed  to 
look  something 
like  the  in- 
flated Hollan- 
der I  was 
representing, 
in  the  centre 
of  the  group, 
where  I  was 
supposed  to 
be  looking  on 
at  a  game  of 
bowls.  Cal- 
d  e  c  0 1 1 ,  who 
was  placed  at 
a  w  i  n  d  o  w , 
fiirtino'    with 

the  maids  of  the  Queen,  was  attired  in  a  graceful  costume 
of  the  most  faultless  description,  surmounted  by  a  mag- 
nificent hat  with  a  sweeping  brim  and  splendid  feathers, 
upon  which  he  had  expended  no  little  pains  and  money.  My 
head-gear  consisted  of  a  very  insignificant  stage  property  hat, 
but  as  I  was  not  intended  to  contribute  an  element  of  beauty  to 
the  picture,  that  didn't  matter.     The  tableau  was  arranged  by 


PORTION   OF   A   LETFER    FROM   GEORGE   DU   MAURIER. 


d- 


118  COXF/'JSS/OXS    OF   A    CARICATrjlIST. 

iMr.  E.  A.  Abbey,  and  wlu'ii  taking  liis  last  look  round  before 
tlie  curtain  was  raised,  his  artistic  eye  detected  that  more  black 
was  rc(|iiired  in  tlie  centre.  While  we  were  thus  in  our  allotted 
positions,  and  straining  every  nerve  to  remain  perfectly  rigid — 
an  orde;d  wliich,  by  the  way,  I  never  wish  to  go  through  ngain, 
as  I  had  hard  work  to  restrain  myself  from  breaking  out  into 
a  Highland  fling  or  an  Irish  jig,  or  calling  out  "Boo  I"  to  the 
audience  to  relieve  my  pent-up  feelings — Mr.  Abbey  suddenly 
seized  the  superb  hat  on  Caldecott's  head,  which  the  latter  had 
had  sj^ecially  made,  and  in  which  he  really  fancied  himself, 
handed  it  to  me,  and  to  Caldecott's  horror,  and  almost  before  he 
was  conscious  that  he  liad  been  made  ridiculous  by  the  wretched 
remnant  which  had  been  sent  from  Bow  Street  for  me,  the 
curtain  wiis  rung  u}). 

I  confess  I  have  a  certain  amount  of  pity,  closely  akin  to 
contempt,  for  the  artist  who  must  have  the  actual  character  he 
Avants  to  paint,  who  cannot  use  a  model  merely  for  reference, 
but  paints  in  eveiythiug  like  a  photograph.  Some  artists  call 
such  feebleness  conscientiousness,  but  to  me  it  seems  mere 
weakness.  Must  an  author  paint  each  character  in  his  book,  or 
an  actor  take  his  every  impersonation  on  the  stage,  minutely 
from  some  living  model  ^  Surely  observation  and  natural 
originality  is  more  than  the  photographic  copying  of  your 
"conscientious"  artist!  Worse  feebleness  still  it  is  when  an 
artist  has  to  paint  a  well-known  character,  say  King  Lear  or 
Mary  (^)ueen  of  Scots,  and  goes  about  hunting  for  a  living 
person  as  near  as  possible  in  appearance  to  the  original,  and 
then  costumes  and  slavishly  reproduces  him  or  her,  without  any 
show  of  judgment  or  insight  after  the  model  is  once  selected. 
And  this  lack  of  insight  into  character  seems  deplorably 
prevalent  among  our  figure  painters,  for  how  often  we  see  in 
the  exhibitions  the  model  with  a  "good  head"  tamely  repro- 
duced over  and  over  again — here  as  a  monk,  there  as  a  Folonius, 
Thomas  a  Jjecket,  a,  ••l)lind  l)eggar,"  "His  Excellency,"  a 
pensioner,  or  painted  l)y  some  ai'tist  who  wants  to  make  a  bid 
for  portraiture  as  "  A  ])()rtrait  of  a  gentleman  "! 

Blai.'k  and  white  men   liave  to   introduce  so  many  characters 


THE    CONFESSIONS    OF   AX   ILLUSTRATOR. 


119 


A   TRANSFORMATION. 


into  their  work,  tliey  arc  obliged  to  invent  them  ;  hut  it  is  a 
curious  fact  that  tliis  facility  disappears  at  times.  The  late  Mr. 
Pi'ed  Barnard,  clever  as  he  was  at  inventino;  character  for  liis 
black  and  white  work,  found,  when  he  was  painting  in  oil,  that 
confidence  had  left  him,  ajid  he  spent  several  days  wandering 
about  London  to  find  real 
characters  for  a  picture  he  was 
painting  representing  the  jury  in 
"Pilgrim's  Progress."  One  diiy 
in  Oxford  Street  he  saw  a 
hansom -cab  driver  with  a  face 
besotted  with  drink  and  "ripe" 
for   production    as    a    slave    to 

Bacchus.  Barnard  hailed  the  hansom,  jumped  in,  and  directed 
the  jehu  to  drive  him  to  his  studio  on  Haverstock  Hill.  In 
going  up  the  Hampstcad  Road  a  tram-car   ran  over  a  child. 

Barnard   was   terribly    upset   by  the 
^  touching   sight,  and  told   the  driver 

^^''^^''^^    *-X^^^  to   pull    up    at    the    nearest    tavern. 

Getting  out,  he  looked  at  his  "subject," 
intend  i no;  to  invite  him  to  refresh- 
meut  Ijefore  taking  him  on  to  his 
studio,  where  he  intended  to  paint  him. 
To  his  horror  the  face  of  the  bibulous 
cabman  had  lost  all  its  "  colour," 
and  was  of  a  pale  greenish  hue. 

"  That  was   horful,   sir,  warn't  it  ? 
It'll  upset  me  for  a  week." 

The  disappointed  artist  dismissed 
his  '■  subject." 
Much  could  be  written  of  this  genuine  humourist.  His 
buoyant  fun  was  irrepressible ;  indoors  and  out  of  doors  he  enter- 
tained himself — and  sometimes  his  friends — with  his  jokes.  In 
his  studio  he  kept  as  pets  some  little  tortoises.  They  were 
allowed  to  crawl  about  as  they  liked,  but  he  had  painted  on  their 
backs  caricatures — a  lauohino-  face,  a  sour-oreen  face,  one  with 
a  look  of  horror,  another  of  mischief.    A  visitor  seated  unaware 


-y^ 


120 


COXFESSIOKS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


of  these  would  suddenly  spring  off  the  sofa  as  the  walking 
mask  slowly  appeared  from  underneath  it !  Barnard's  power 
of  mimicry  was  great,  and  his  jokes  were  as  excellent  as 
his  drawinirs.  Even  when  sittino;  before  the  camera  for  his 
photograph,  he  had  his  little  joke. 

There  are  a  number  of  girls  who  go  the  round  of  the  studios, 
but  have  no  right  whatever  to  do  so.  They  generally  hunt  in 
pairs,  and    this  habit  surely  distinguishes  them  from  the  real 

model.  They  are  more  easily 
drawn  than  described.  Two  of 
this  class  once  called  on  Barnard. 
"What  do  you  sit  for  T'  he 
asked. 

"  Oh,  anything,  sir." 
"  Ah,  I  am  a  figure  man,  you 
are  no  use  to  me,  but  there  is  a 
friend  of  mine  over  there  who 
is  now  painting  a  landscape — 1 
think  you  might  do  very  well 
for  a  haystack  ;  and  your  friend 
might  try  studio  No.  5  and  sit 
for  a  thunder-cloud,  the  artist 
there  is  starting  a  stormy  piece 
— oh,  good  morning."  Tableau  ! 
A  wretched  individual  once  called  upon  me  and  begged  me 
to  give  him  a  sitting.  I  asked  him  to  sit  for  what  I  was  at 
work  upon  :  this  Avas  a  wicket-keeper  in  a  cricket  match  bending 
over  the  wicket.  I  assured  the  man  he  need  not  apologise,  as  he 
had  really  turned  up  at  an  opportune  moment ;  the  drawing 
was  "news,"  and  it  had  to  be  finished  that  day.  When  I  had 
shown  my  model  the  position  and  made  him  understand  exactly 
what  I  wanted,  I  noticed  to  my  surprise  that  he  was  trembling 
all  over.  I  immediately  asked  him  if  he  were  cold. 
"No." 

"  Nervous  ? " 
"No." 
"Then  wliy  not  keep  still  V 


UAKXARD  AND  THE  MODELS. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  AN  ILLUSTRATOR. 


121 


"  Well,  that's  just  what  I  can't  do,  sir  !  I  had  to  give  up  my 
occupation  because,  sir,  I  am  hafflicted  with  the  palsy,  and 
when  I  bend  I  do  tremble  so.  I  only  sit  for  'ands,  sir — for  'ands- 
to  portrait  painters.  I  close  'em  for  a  military  gent — I  open  'em 
for  a  bishop — but  when  the  hartist  is  hin  a  'urry  I  know  as  'ow  to 
'ide  one  'and  in  my  pocket  and  the  bother  hunder  a  cocked  'at.'^ 

Hiding  hands  recalls  to  me  a  fact  I  may 
mention  in  justice  to  our  modern  English 
caricaturists.  We  never  make  capital  out  of 
our  subjects'  deformities.  This  I  pointed  out 
at  a  dinner  in  Birmingham  a  few  years  ago, 
at  which  I  was  the  guest  of  the  evening,  and 
as  I  was  addressing  journalists  I  mention  this 
fact  in  justice  to  myself  and  my  brother  cari- 
caturists. As  it  happened,  that  afternoon  I  had 
heard  Mr.  Gladstone  making  his  first  speech 
in  the  opening  of  Parliament,  1886,  after 
being  returned  in  Opposition.  Turning  round 
to  his  young  supporters,  he  used  for  the  first 
time  the  now  famous  expression  "an  old 
Parliamentary  hand,"  holding  up  at  the  same 
time  a  hand  on  which  there  were  only  three 
fingers.  Now  had  I  drawn  that  hand  as  it 
was,  minus  the  first  finger,  showing  the  black 
patch  1  It  would  have  been  tempting  on 
the  part  of  a  foreign  caricaturist,  because  it 
had  a  curious  application  under  the  circum- 
stances. (But  it  would  be  noticed  that  in  my  sketch  in  Punch 
the  first  finger,  which  really  did  not  exist,  is  prominently  shown.) 
This  was  the  first  time  the  fact  was  made  public  that 
Mr.  Gladstone  had  not  the  first  finger  on  the  left  hand ;  since 
then,  however,  all  artists,  humorous  or  serious,  were  careful  to 
show  Mr.  Gladstone's  left  hand  as  pointed  out  by  me. 

Now  I  had  noticed  this  for  years  in  the  House,  and  I  hold 
as  an  aro-ument  that  men  are  not  observant  the  fact  that 
Members  who  had  sat  in  the  House  with  Mr.  Gladstone,  on  the 
same  benches,  for  years,  assured  me  that  they  had  never  noticed 


*'  I  SIT  FOR  'axds, 
SIR." 


122 


('O.VFJ'JSS/O.VS    OF   J    CARIVATIlilST. 


his  liuiul  beloiv  I  iiuule  tliis  matter  public.  So  that  when  1  am 
told  that  1  misrepresent  portraits  of  prominent  men  I  always 
point  to  this  lact. 

iNIr.  Gladstone  was  eareful  to  hide  the  deformity  in  his  photo- 
graj^hs,  but  in  his  usual  energetic  manner  in  the  House  the 
black  patch  in  place  of  the  finger  was  on  many  occasions  in 
no  way  concealed. 

These  are  plebeian  models,  but  sometimes  artists'  friends 
recommend  amateur  models — a  broken-down  gentleman  or  some 
other  poor  relation — and  when  yon  are  drawing  social  modern 


THE  OBAND  OLD  HAND  AND  THE  YOUNG  'UNS. 


"  I  st.ind  line  :is  i  ^rpmbcr  of  the  Houw,  where  there  : 
tiiken  Iheir  feats  (or  the  tirst  time  upon  these  henches,  and   «hei 


«ho  hav 


wn  frceiloni.  until  I  ?ec  the  ocrnsinn  when  there r 


be  tome  to  whom  possibly  I  may  avail  mjself  of  the  privilege  of  old  :igo  to  and  1  will  venture  to  rrionimend  llirm.  as  an  oM  rarli:iracntary  hand,  (o  do 
■oiler  a  riiommrndatlon.     I  would  tell  them  of  my  own  intention  to  keep  my  I  tile  same.     {Lai'jhta.)  "—J-'iom  Claililoiiii  i>jirtc'i. 

A   PUNCH  ENGRAVIXG,    DRAWX   OX    AVOOD. 

subjects,  of  course  these  are  really  of  more  use  than  the 
l)aclly- dressed   }trofessional  model. 

On  "  Private  \'iew  Day  "  at  the  lioyal  Academy  a  few  years 
ago  a  knot  of  artists  and  their  wives  were  in  one  of  the  rooms ; 
it  was  late,  and  few  of  the  visitors  remained.  The  attention  of 
the  artists  was  attracted  1)y  a  stately  and  beautiful  being  who 
entered  and  went  round  examining  the  pictures. 

"  J  low  charming  !  "  remarked  one. 

"  Delightful!" 'replied  another. 

"  Oh,  if  she  would  Init  sit  to  me  !  "  prayed  a  third. 

'■  Why  not  ask  lici-  (  "  asked  the  practical  one.  "  If  anyone  can, 
you  can  :   so  renicml)cr  that  faint  heart  never  won  fair  sitter!" 


THE   COXFESSIOXS   OF  AX  ILLUSTRATOR.  123 

'•  Well,  here  goes  !  "  whispered  the  cavalier,  Mr.  Val  Prinsep, 
R.A.,  in  the  tone  of  one  about  to, lead  a  forlorn  hope,  and  he 
charged  desperately  across  the  gallery.  Ele  approached  the  fair 
stmnger,  and  politely  taking  off  his  hat  said  diffidently : 

"Madam,  I  am  one  of  the  Academy.  Should  you  wish  to 
knoAv  anything  about  the  pictures  I  shall  be  glad " 

"  Oh,  thanks.     I  know  a  good  deal  about  them." 

"  Indeed  !  Then  you  will  understand  how  w^e  artists  arc  always 
on  the  look-out  for  beauty  to  paint — and — ah — lim — well,  you 
see  I — that  is  we  "  (pointing  to  the  group)  "  were  so  struck  with 
your  presence  that — all — pardon  my  abruptness — we  thought 
that  if  such  a  thing  were  possil)le  you  might  condescend  to 
allow  one  of  us  to  make  a  study  of  your  head — ah." 

"  Oh,  with  pleasure."  said  the  fair  visitor,  taking  from  her 
hand-bag  a  neat  little  note-book,  and  opening  it,  she  said  : 

"  Well,  I  have  only  got  Sundays  and  one  Wednesday  next 
month  disengaged, — I  have  got  sittings  on  every  other  day. 
AVill  this  be  of  any  use  to  you  '\ '"' 

She  was  a  model ! 

The  first  house  I  occupied  after  I  married  faced  one  occupied 
by  a  well-known  and  worthy  fiery-tempered  man  of  letters,  and 
it  so  happened  that  one  evening  my  wife  and  I  were  dining  at 
the  house  of  another  neiglibour.  We  were  gratified  to  learn 
that  our  celebrated  pis-d-vis,  hearing  we  had  come  to  live  in  the 
same  square,  was  anxious  to  make  our  acquaintance.  On  our 
return  home  that  night  we  discovered  the  latch-key  had  been 
forgotten,  and  unfortunately  our  knocking  and  ringing  failed  to 
arouse  the  domestics.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  we 
awoke  our  neighbours,  and  a  window  of  the  house  o^^posite  was 
violently  thrown  open,  and  language  all  the  stronger  by  being 
endowed  with  literary  inerit  came  from  that  man  of  letters,  who 
in  the  dark  was  unable  to  see  the  particular  neighbours  offending 
him,  and  he  referred  to  my  wife  and  myself  in  a  way  that  could 
not  be  passed  over.  A  battle  of  words  ensued  in  which  1  was 
proved  the  victor,  and  my  neighl)our  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 
Before  retirino-  I  wrote  a  note  to  the  friend  we  had  just  left 
to    say   that    in    the    circumstances    I   refused    to    know   my 


124 


COXFESSIOys   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


ueiglibour,  and  lie  had  better  inform  him  that  I  would  on  the  first 
opportunity  punch  his  head.  By  the  same  post  I  wrote  for  a 
particular  model, — a  retired  pugilist.  As  soon  as  he  arrived 
next  morning  T  placed  him  at  the  window  of  my  studio  facing 
the  opposite  house,  now  and  then  sending  him  down  to  the  front 
door  to  stand  on  the  doorstep  to  await  some  imaginary  person, 

and  to  keep  his  eye  on  the  house 
opposite.  1  went  on  with  my  work  in 
peace.     Presently  a  note  came  : 

"  Dear  Furniss, — Your  neighbour  has  sent 
round  to  ask  me  what  you  are  hke.  He  has 
never  seen  you  till  this  morning,  and  he  is 
frightened  to  leave  his  house.  He  implores 
me  to  apologise  for  him." 

He  departed  from  the  neighbour- 
hood shortly  afterwards. 

Sad  to  relate  that  all  Governmental 
undertakings  of  an  artistic  nature,  from 
our  most  colossal  public  building  or 
monument  to  the  design  of  a  postage 
stamp,  are  fair  game  for  ridicule  !  The 
outward  manifest  record  of  the  Post 
Office  Jubilee — rather  the  "Post  Office 
Jumble  " — was  the  envelope  and  post 
card  published  by  the  Government  and 
sold  for  one  shilling.  The  pitiful  character  of  the  design,  from  an 
artistic  point  of  view,  shocked  every  person  of  taste;  so  I  set  to 
work  and  burlesqued  it,  strictly  following  the  lines  of  the  genuine 
article.  A  glance  at  my  envelope  alone,  therefore,  is  sufficient  to 
show  the  wretched  (juality  of  the  original.  It  happened  that  the 
postmen's  grievances  were  very  prominent  at  that  time.  The 
Postmaster-General  and  the  trade  unionists  and  others  were  at 
fever  heat,  and  excitement  ran  high.  This  caricature-parody, 
therefore,  was  a  sketch  with  aj^urpose.  It  was  said  at  one  of  the 
meetings  that  my  pencil  "  may  pcrhajjs  touch  the  public 
.sympathy  in  behalf  of  the  postman  more  effectually  than  any 
lanoiiaoe  has  been  able  to  do."     The  wretched  thinfr  was  thouo-ht 


JIY   FIGHTIXG   DOUBLE. 


NAG-l5TeK- 5P0auVNi.irJ.  A<4l^/\ 

ST.40HA»J'S    VVOOp 
UOKDirJil/M  -      "^  ••' 


SPECIJIEN   OF   MR.    LIXLEY   SAMBOURNE  S   ENVELOPES   TO   ME. 


THE   COXFESSIOXS    OF  AX  ILLUSTRATOR. 


127 


worthy  af  an  article  by  JNIr.  M.  H.  Spielmann.  My  skit,  it  is 
needless  to  add,  was  very  popular  with  the  postmen.  They 
showed  their  gratitude  by  saving  many  a  misdirected  letter. 
A  letter  addressed  "Harry  Furniss,  London,"  has  frequently  found 
me,  without  the  loss  of  a  post. 

I  signed  a  certain  number,  which  sold  at  10.^.  Qd.  each,  and 
were  bought  up  principally  by  tlie  members  of  the  Philatelic 
Society. 

Perhaps  the  publication  of  tliis  "  Post  Office  Jumble  "  card 
was  also  the  cause  of  the  puzzled  postmen  taking  the  trouble  to 


CHEQUE   FOR    OsU.    PASSED    THROUGH    TWO    BANKS    AND    PAID.        I   SIGNED   IT 

haclacards,  and  it  avas  cancelled  by  clerk  hacTcicards. 


decipher  and  deliver  the  far  more  amusing  artistic  jokes  of  that 
irrepressible  joker,  Mr.  Linley  Sambourne.  By  his  permission 
I  here  publish  a  page,  a  selection  of  the  envelopes  he  has  sent 
me  from  time  to  time. 

It  is  bad  enough  purposely  to  puzzle  the  overworked  letter- 
carriers — they  are  too  often  tried  by  unintentional  touches  of 
humour  emanating  from  the  most  innocent  and  unsuspected 
members  of  the  public — ^but  I  confess  that  I  was  once  the 
innocent  cause  of  Mr.  Sambourne  trying  the  same  thing  on  with 
the  overworked  bank  clerk. 

I  sent  my  Punch  friend  a  cheque,  here  reproduced,  for  the 
sum  of  b\d.,  payable  to  "  Lynnlay  Sam  Bourne,  Esqre,"  signed 


128 


COXFESSIOXS    OF   A    CARICATURIST. 


and  go." 


SIR   HENRY    IRVING   WRITES   HIS 
NAME  BACKWARDS. 


by  me  bcack wards,  crossed  "  Don't  you  wish  you  may  get  it 
Sambourne  endorsed  it  "  L.  Sam.  Bourne,"  and  sent 
it  to  his  bank.  The  clerk  went  one 
Ijettcr,  and  wrote  "Cancelled"  hcick- 
irarcls  across  my  reversed  signature. 
It  passed  through  my  bank,  and  the 
money  was  paid.  This  is  probably 
unique  in  the  history  of  banking. 

A  'propos  of  writing  backwards, 
in  days  when  artists  made  their 
drawing's  on  wood  everything:  of 
course  had  to  l)e  reversed,  and 
writing  backwards  became  quite 
easy.  To  this  day  I  can  write 
backwards  nearly  as  quickly  as  I  write  in  the  ordinary  way. 
One  night  at  supper  I  was  explaining  this,  and  furthermore  told 
my  friends  that  they  themselves  could  write  back- 
wards— in  fact,  they  could  not  avoid  doing  so. 
Not  of  course  on  the  table,  as  I  was  doing,  but  by 
placing  the  sheet  of  paper  against  the  tal)le  under- 
neath, and  writing  with  the  point  upwards.  Perhaps 
my  reader  will  try— and  see  the  effect.  For 
encouragement  here  are  a  few  of  the  first  attempts 

on  that  particular  evening. 
A  few  years  ago  a  banquet  was 
oiven  at  the  Mansion  House  to 
the  representatives  of  French 
art ;  several  English  painters  and 
others  interested  in  art  were 
invited  to  meet  them.  Previous 
to  being  presented  to  the  Lord 
Mayor,  every  guest  was  requested  to  sign  an  autograph  album — 
an  unusual  proceeding,  I  think, 
at  a  City  diiuior.  Were  I  Lord 
Mayor  I  would  compel  my  guests 
10  sio-ii  their  names — not  on 
arrival,    but    wlien    leavinii"    the 


SIR   HENRY 
I R  vino's 
ATTEMPT. 


MR.  J.    L.    TCOLES   FIRST   ATTEMPT, 


^K^si^ 


MR.  J.  L.  TOOLK  S  SECOND  ATTEMPT. 


THE   CONFESSIOXS   OF  AX  ILLUSTRATOR.  129 

Mansion  House,  and  thus  possess  an  autograph  album  of 
erratic  graphology,  and  one  worth  studying.  In  company  with 
my  friend  Mr.  Whit  worth  Wallis,  the  curator  of  the  Birmingham 
Museum  and  Art  Gallery,  1  entered  the  Mansion  House,  when 
we  were  immediately  accosted  by  a  powdered  flunkey  in 
gorgeous  uniform,  in  possession  of  the  autograph  album,  who 
presented  a  truly  magnificent  pen  at  us,  and  in  peremptory 
tones  demanded  our  life  or  our  sio;natures.  Whit  worth  Wallis 
wrote  his  first,  with  a  dash  and  confidence.  I  stood  by  and 
admired.  "  Oh,"  I  said,  taking  the  pen,  "  that's  not  half  a  dash; 
let  me  show 
you  mine.''  y^ 

Jeames,     in 
taking  the  pen 

from  me,  looked  condescendingly  over  the  page,  and  with  the  air 
of  a  justice  delivering  judgment  said  to  me  : 

"  Beaten  'im  by  hinches,  sir.     Beaten  'im  by  hinches  I  " 

Months  after  that  I  gave  an  entertainment  one  eveninsj  at 
Woolwich.  My  audience  was  principally  composed  of  Arsenal 
hands.  On  leaving  the  platform  I  was  taken  into  the  Athletic 
Club  rooms,  and  asked  to  sign  their  autograph  book  and  say  a 
"few  words"  to  the  members.  The  few  words  consisted  of 
the  "  record  "  I  had  made  in  the  sio;nino-  match  I  had  with  Mr. 
Wallis  at  the  Mansion  House — an  incident  which  was  brought 
to  my  mind  suddenly  when  I  took  the  pen  in  my  hand.  It  so 
happened  that  Whitworth  Wallis,  who  is  a  well-known  lecturer 
on  art  matters,  was  on  that  same  night  lecturing  in  the  North  of 
England,  and  as  he  left  the  platform  at  the  same  hour  as  I  at 
Woolwich,  he  was,  like  me,  asked  to  sign  an  autograph  book, 
and  told  the  very  same  story  to  his  friends  in  the  North  as  I  was 
telling  under  exactly  similar  circumstances,  the  same  evening, 
at  the  same  hour,  in  the  South.  Neither  of  us  knew  that  the 
other  was  lecturing  that  night.  It  is  not  by  any  means  a  usual 
thing  to  be  asked  to  sign  a  club  album,  and  Wallis  and  I  had 
not  met  or  corresponded  since  the  evening  at  the  Mansion 
House. 

After  working  many  years  for  the  Illustrated  London  News, 

C. — VOL.    I.  K 


130  CONFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

T  became  a  contributor  to  the  Grai-)]iic,  and  for  that  journal 
wrote  and  illustrated  a  series  of  supplements  upon  "  Life  in 
Parliament " ;  but  from  this  time  forward  it  would  be  difficult 
to  name  any  illustrated  paper  with  which  I  have  not  at  some 
time  or  other  been  connected.  For  instance,  the  Yorkshire 
Post  a  few  years  ago  started  a  halfpenny  evening  paper,  and 
sent  their  manager  down  to  me  to  ask  my  honorarium  to 
illustrate  the  first  few  numbers  with  character  sketches  of  the 
members  of  the  British  Association,  who  were  holding  their 
meetings  that  week  in  Leeds.  This  was  a  happy  thought,  as 
the  "  British  Asses,"  as  they  are  too  familiarly  called,  sent  these 
first  numbers  of  the  paper  all  ov^er  the  country ;  the  new  ship 
had  something  to  start  upon,  and  is  now  a  prosperous  concern. 
There  are  various  stories  about  the  sum  I  received  for  this  work. 
It  was  a  large  sum  for  England,  where  enterprise  of  this  kind  is 
very  rare.  I  was  "  billed  "  all  over  the  town  as  if  I  were  a 
Patti  or  Paderevvski,  and  telegrams  were  sent  to  the  London 
papers  by  the  special  reporters  announcing  the  terms  upon 
which  I  was  at  work ;  altogether  it  was  a  bit  of  Yankee 
booming  that  would  have  made  a  Harmsworth  or  a  Newnes 
green  with  envy. 


CAEICATURE. 


CHAPTER   V. 


A    CHAT    BETWEEN    MY    PEN    AND    PENCIL. 

"What  is  Caricature  ? — Interviewing — Catching  Caricatures — Pellegrini — 
The  "Ha!  Ha!" — -Black  and  White  v.  Paint  —  How  to  make  a 
Caricature — M.P.'s  —  My  System — -Mr.  Labouchere's  Attitude — Do 
the  Subjects  object? — Colour  in  Caricature — Caught !— A  Pocket 
Caricature — The  Danger  of  the  Shirt-cuff — The  Danger  of  a  Marble 
Table — Quick  Change — Advice  to  those  about  to  Caricature. 

I  am  asked  what  is  caricature,  how 
can  I  define  it '?  Ah,  here  it  is 
exphained  by  some  great  authority 
— whom  I  cannot  say,  for  I  have 
it  under  the  heading  of  "  Cuttings 
from  Cohiey  Hatch,"  undated,  un- 
named.   Kindly  read  it  carefully : 

"  The  word  itself,  '  caricature,' 
is  related  etymologically  to  our 
own  'cargo/  and  means,  in  all 
Italian  simplicity,  a  loading.  So, 
then,  the  finely  analytical  quality 
of  the  Italian  intellect,  disengaging 
the  ultimate  (material)  element 
out  of  all  the  (spiritual)  elements 
of  pictorial  distortion  and  travesty,  called  it  simply  a  'loading.' 
After  all,  '  exageration '  only  substitutes  the  idea  of  mound,  or 
agger  for  carica — the  heaping  up  of  a  mound — for  the  common 
Italian  word  'load'  or  'cartload.'  One  can  easily  understand 
how  a  cold,  cynical,  and  hating  Neapolitan,  pushed  about  by  the 

K  2 


132 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


police  for  a  likeness  much  too  like,  would  shrug  his  shoulders,  and 
say,  possibly,  the  likeness  was  loaded.  But  when  we  look  at  the 
character  of  the  loading,  there  may  be  anything  there,  from 
diabolical  and  malignant  spite  up  to  the  simplest  fun,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  almost  impossibility  of  drawing  the  real  truth, 
and  the  almost  necessary  tendency  to  exaggerate  one  thing  and 
diminish  another.     But  if  the  Italian  mind,  with  a  head  to  be 


THE   STUDIO  OF  A  CARICATURIST. 


chopped  off  by  a  despot  for  a  joke,  discovered  the  colourless  and 
impregnable  word  'load,'  the  French  (/a?}iz/i,  on  his  own  responsi- 
bility, hit  upon  the  identical  word  in  French,  namely,  *  charge  * 
— une  charge  meaning  both  a  pictorial  or  verbal  goak  or  carica- 
ture, and  a  load.  When  did  the  word  '  caricature '  first  obtain 
in  the  Italian  lano-unw,  and  how  ?  When  did  the  word 
'  charge '  acquire  a  similar  meaning  in  France,  and  was  it  or 
not  suggested  by  the  Italian  word  '(  But  the  thing  caricature 
goes  back  to  the  night  of  ages,  and  is  in  its  origin  connected 
with  the    subjective  risil)le    faculty   on    the  one    side  and    the 


A    CHAT  BETWEEN  AfY  PEX  AXD   PENCIL.  133 

objective  tendency  to  making  faces  on  tlie  other.  Curiously 
enough,  the  original  German  ideas  of  caricature  appear  to  have 
hinged  precisely  upon  the  distortion  of  the  countenance,  since 
Fratze,  the  leading  word  for  caricature,  signifies  originally  a 
grimace.  Then  we  have  Posse,  buffoonery  (Italian,  pazzie), 
which,  without  original   reference   to    drawing,    would  exactly 

express  many  of  Mr.  's  very  exquisite    drolleries,    diving 

as  they  do  into  tlie  weirdest  genius — conceptions  of  night  and 
of  day,  of  dawn  and  of  twilight — the  mixture  of  the  terrible,  the 
grotesque,  the  gigantic,  the  infinitely  little,  the  animal,  the  beast, 
the  ethereal,  the  divinely  loving,  the  diabolically  cynical,  the 
crawling,  the  high-bred,  all  in  a  universal  salmagundi  and 
lobster  nightmare,  mixing  up  the  loveliest  conceptions  with 
croaking  horrors,  the  eternal  aurora  with  the  everlasting 
nitschetvo  of  the  frozen,  blinding  steppe.  Caricature  !  What 
can  we  English  call  it  ?  " 

What  indeed  after  this  ?  Except  in  despair  we  adopt  the 
child's  well-known  definition — "  First  you  think,  and  then  you 
draw  round  the  think."  I  have  been  more  than  once  asked  to 
deliver  a  lecture  explaining  the  process.  Of  course  such  an 
idea  is  too  absurd  for  serious  consideration.  The  comic  writer 
cannot  give  anyone  a  recipe  for  making  jokes,  nor  can  a  comic 
actor  show  you  how  to  grimace  so  as  to  make  others  laugh  in 
this  serious  country.  We  are  not  taught  to  look  at  the  comic 
side  of  things — any  humorous  element  may  grow,  like  Topsy, 
unaided — nor  is  the  power  given  to  many  to  explain  to  others 
their  inventions.  Bessemer,  the  inventor  of  the  steel  bearino- 
his  name,  when  he  first  made  his  discovery  was  asked  to  read  a 
paper  explaining  his  invention  to  a  large  meeting  of  experts. 
He  had  his  carefully-prepared  notes  in  front  of  him,  but  they 
only  embarrassed  him.  He  struggled  to  speak,  but  failed. 
Only  the  weight  of  the  lumps  of  metal  dangling  in  his  coat- 
tail  pocket  kept  him  from  collapsing.  Suddenly  he  dived  his 
hand  into  the  pocket  and  produced  a  piece  of  steel,  which 
he  tliumped  on  the  table.  "  Bother  the  paper !  Here  is  my 
steel,  and  I'll  tell  you  how  I  made  it !  "  So  would  it  be  with  a 
caricaturist.      After  a  struggle  he  would  say,   "  Bother  words. 


134 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


words,  words  !     Here  is  a  pencil,  and  here  is  some  paper.     I'll 
show  you  how  I  caricature." 

Personally,  I  have  no  objection  to  being  caricatured — I 
frequently  make  caricatures  of  myself.  Nor  have  I  any 
objection   to    being   interviewed — I    interview    myself.      What 

else  are  these  pages  but 
interviews  ?  I  confess  I 
fail  to  see  any  objection 
to  a  legitimate  caricature 
or  a  legitimate  interview. 
On  the  contrary,  I  look 
upon  interviewing  by  an 
experienced  and  sympa- 
thetic writer  as  invaluable 
to  a  public  man  who  is 
bringing  out  something 
novel  and  of  interest  to 
the  public  at  large.  It 
certainly  seems  to  me 
judicious  that  he  should 
give  his  preliminary  ideas 
crsa^/^  ^v      regarding  it  to  the  public 

^  fy^^fr^  ^Ty^      firsthand,  instead  of  allow- 
^r)if^^'^ '  ^^^S  them  to  leak  out  in 

-^   tOov  "t^AJTC-c-^f  j^n  unauthentic  and  dis- 

^  y<ru_  ^^iri^.^*^^  -^^^-c^-o.  figured  form  through  the 
.-'Cnf^Uy  ^^  -dSUiJi^j  J€E<i^<U>k.  fervid  imaginations  of  irre- 
sponsible scribes,  leading 
to  much  misconception. 
But  I  do  object  to  the  incapable,  be  he  an  interviewer  wielding 
the  pencil  or  the  pen.  To  illustrate  my  meaning  I  shall  take 
the  latter  first.  The  pen  in  this  case  did  his  work  in  true 
professional  style.  He  came  to  interview  me,  and  by  doing 
so  to  "boom  "me  for  a  journal  which  was  about  to  make  a 
feature  of  my  contributions  Xo  its  pages.  He  brought  with 
him  a  new  note-book  of  remarkable  size  ;  an  artist  Avith  a 
portfolio,     pencils,     and     other     artistic     necessities  ;     and    a 


CARICATURE  OF  ME  BY  MY  DAUGHTER,  AGE  15. 


A    GHAT  BETWEEN  MY  PEN  AND  PENCIL. 


135 


photographer  !     The  interviewer  shall  describe  the  scene  in  his 
own  words. 

The    interviewer    remarked    that   the    readers  of  the 

"  would  be  very  interested  in  knowing  exactly  how  the  thing 
(interviewing)  was  done.     How  did  the  ideas  come  ?     How  did 
they  take  shape  1    And  what  was  the  method  of  work  1    Neither 
at  these  nor  at  any  other  ques- 
tions did  Mr.  Furniss  wince.     It 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  when 
he  was  in  America  last  year  he 
was  interviewed,  on  an  average, 
once  a  day ;  and  a  man  who  has 
passed  through  such  an  experi- 
ence as  that  is  unlikely  to  recoil 
before     any     ordinary     ordeal ; 
although  Mr.  Furniss  was  bound 
to  admit  that  a  combination  of 
interviewer,    artist,    and   photo- 
grapher   had    never  before    got 
liini  into  his  grip.    Tlie  situation 
would  have  had  its  ludicrous  side 
for  anybody  who   had   chanced 
to    peep  through   the    skylight. 
The  spectacle  of  five  men  (for 
the  presence  of  the  indefatigable 
secretary  was   an    indispensable 
part    of    the     proceedings)     all 
solemnly  drinking  tea,  while  a  deer-hound  kept  a  wistful  eye  on 
the  sugar-basin,  was  unusual,  and  perhaps  a  little  grotesque — to 
all  save  the  participants.     Seated  at  his  easel  in  the  characteristic 
position  represented  in  our  sketch,  Mr.  Furniss  would  now  and 
again  ask  permission  to  move  his  arm  towards  his  cup  of  tea,  and 
would  then  bend  back  to  the  make-belief  work  at  which  he  was 
posing."    There  is  a  picture  of  interviewing!    Everything  so  pre- 
pared, so  studied,  so  well  described  to  impress  the  subscribers  of  the 
enterprising  journal.   The  photographer  with  a  wide  angle  lens  took 
in  all  that  was  in  my  studio — to  "  make-believe,"  as  the  camera 


A   SERIOUS   PORTRAIT — FROM   LIFE. 


136 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


invariably  does,  that  the  apartment  was  six  times  larger  than  it 
really  is.  But  the  artist,  who  should  idealise  if  the  photographer 
could  not,  Avho  so  sadly  interfered  with  my  enjoying  my  tea,  who 
was  sent  to  make  the  most  of  me  to  raise  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
readers  and  to  increase  the  subscriptions,  succeeded  in  doing  with 
his  pencil  what  no  interviewer  has  done  with  his  pen, — he  made 
me  wince !     Here  is  a  reduction  of  the  serious  portrait  published. 

I  have  sat  down  time  after  time  to  answer  young  corre- 
spondents' questions  about  the  "  system "  to  adopt  for  the 
production  of  caricature.  I  invariably  end  by  drawing 
imaginary  caricatures  of  my  correspondent  and  fail  to  reply. 
When  interviewed  on  the  subject  of  caricature,  I  discourse  on 
the  history  of  the  Pre-Eaphaelite  movement,  and  the  technique 
in  the  work  of  Burne-Jones,  Rossetti,  and  Holman  Hunt,  and 
caricature  is  therefore  driven  from  our  minds. 

However,  the  difficulty  was  solved  in  a  very  unexpected 
manner.  One  day,  whilst  smoking  my  cigar  after  lunch,  I 
overheard  an  interview  in  my  studio,  which  I  here  reproduce. 

A  Pencil  of  mine  was  working  away  merrily  shortly  after  the 
opening  of  the  Session,  when  suddenly  my  favourite  Pen  flew 
off  the  writing-table,  where  it  had  been  enjoying  a  quiet  forty 
winks,  and  alighted  on  the  easel. 


you 
kii, 


will    make    allowauc 


ow  very  awkward  you  are  1 "  cried 
the  Pencil.  "See,  you  have 
knocked  against  and  so  agitated 
me  that];I  have  actually  given 
Sir  William  an  extra  chin." 

"  One  more  or  less  does  not 
matter,  does  it  I "  rejoined  the 
Pen.     "  I   ajDologise,    and    trust 

for  mc,   as  1  am  only   an  artist's 


don't   you   know,  and   naturally  rather  uncouth,   I  fear.' 


A    CHAT  BETWEEN  MY  FEN  AND   PENCIL.  137 

"  Pray  take  a  seat  upon  the  indiarubber,  and  let  me  know 
to  what  I  am  indebted  for  the  honour  of  this  visit." 

"Well,  "continued  the  Pen,  "Ihaveflown  over  here  to  remind  you 
of  your  promise  to  confess  to  me  some  of  the  secrets  of  caricature." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  replied  the  Pencil,  "  I  remember  now.  I  have 
really  been  so  busy  sketching  Members  of  Parliament  at  St. 
Stephen's,  that  I  had  almost  forgotten  my  promise." 

"  A  poor  Pen  is  out  of  place  in  an  artist's  studio,  except  to 
minister  to  the  requirements  of  the  autograph  hunter.  Well, 
you  need  not  be  jealous.  My  literary  flight  is  not  intended  to 
be  a  very  high  one  after  all.  Now  you  know  more  about  the 
secrets  of  the  studio  than  I  do  ;  so  tell  me,  is  it  the  custom  of 
H.  F.  to  have  a  regular  sitting  for  a  caricature,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  portrait  painters  \  " 

"  Oh,  you  are  too  delightfully  innocent  altogether,"  laughed 
the  Pencil,  rubbing  its  leaden  head  rapidly  on  a  piece  of  paper, 
to  sharpen  its  point.  '•'  A  regular  sitting !  What  do  you 
think  ?  No,  sir,  no,  emphatically  never.  Such  an  operation 
would  be  fatal  to  the  delicate  constitution  of  a  caricature,  and 
the  result  would  not  l)e  worth  the  paper  upon  which  it  is  drawn. 
It  is  only  in  ordinary  portraiture  that  a  sitting  is  required,  and 
upon  that  point  I  have  a  theory." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  your  theories  now,  old  fellow,"  rejoined 
the  Pen,  as  it  took  a  sip  of  ink  and  prepared  to  chronicle  the 
reply,  "  What  I  want  to  chat  to  you  about  at  present  is  how 
to  catch  a  caricature." 

The  Pencil  pricked  up  his  ears,  and  with  a  knowing  wink,  said  : 

"  Ah,  I  see !  You  want  to  know  secrets.  Well,  I  will  tell 
you  '  how  it's  done.'  The  great  point  about  a  caricature  is  that 
it  must  be  caught  unawares.  A  man  when  he  thinks  he  is 
unobserved  struts  about  gaily,  just  for  all  the  world  like  a 
hedgehog.  All  his  peculiarities  are  then  as  evident  as  your 
cousins  the  quills  upon  the  back  of  the  fretful  porcupine.  But 
the  moment  the  man  or  woman  who  is  about  to  be  caricatured 
observes  H.  F.  take  me  in  hand,  I  always  notice  that  he  shrivels 
up  and  collapses  as  quickly  as  one  of  the  insectivora  surprised 
at  his  feast.     But  wait  a   moment :   now   you  ask   me,   I   do 


138  COJFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

recollect  oue  unfortunate  man  who,  despite  H.  F.'s  protest, 
insisted  upon  coming  here  once  to  sit  for  a  caricature.  He 
looked  the  picture  of  misery,  and  sat  in  the  chair  there,  just 
as  if  he  were  at  a  dentist's.  H.  F.  made  a  most  Hatterina: 
portrait.  Indeed,  so  much  too  handsome  was  it  that  I  could 
hardly  follow  the  workings  of  his  fingers,  I  was  laughing  so." 

"  '  Oh,  what  a  relief!'  cried  the  sitter,  when  H.  F.  showed  him 
the  drawing.  '  You  have  certainly  made  a  pretty  guy  of  me, 
but,  thank  heaven,  I  am  not  thin-skinned.' 

"  '  Only  thick-headed,'  muttered  H.  F.  sotto  voce  to  me  as  he 
continued  to  chat  with  the  sitter. 

"  No  sooner  had  he  left  the  studio  than  the  '  study '  was  in 
the  fire,  and  the  caricature  which  afterwards  came  from  the 
Furniss  was  drawn  entirely  from  memory. 

"The  artist  is  in  more  evil  case  when  he  has  absolutely  no 
chance  whatever  of  making  the  slightest  memorandum,  for  he 
must  trust  to  memory  alone,"  remarked  the  Pencil. 

"  Yet  Pellegrini  boasted  that  he  always  trusted  to  memory," 
said  the  Pen. 

"  I  know  he  did,"  replied  the  Pencil,  "  and  more  than 
once  chaffed  H.  F.  for  bringing  me  out.  H.  F.,  I  know,  has  the 
greatest  admiration  for  most  of  Pellegrini's  work,  but  thinks 
that  '  Ape '  certainly  had  the  failing  common  to  all  Italian 
caricaturists  of  Ijeing  cruel  rather  than  funny.  I  may  mention 
too,  here,  an  iucideni  for  the  truth  of  which  H.  F.  can  vouch^ 
and  which  illustrates  another  weakness  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Sunny  South..  When  the  poor  fellow  was  ill  a  friend  of  his 
one  day  set  to  work  to  put  his  room  in  order,  and  in  moving  a 
ecictnwas  surprised  to  find  behind  it  a  number  of  soiled  shirts. 
Pie  befjan  to  count  them  over  with  a  view  to  sendino-  them  to 
the  laundry,  when  Pellegrini  starting  up  exclaimed,  'You 
fellow !  you  leave  my  shirts  there,  or  I  am  a  ruined  man. 
Don't  you  see  they  are  my  "  slitock  in  drade  "  ? '  And  sure 
enough  upon  the  huge  familiar  linen  cuffs  were  numerous  notes 
in  pencil — sketches,  in  fact,  from  life  for  coming  caricatures.  Now, 
when  H.  F.  intends  to  trust  entirely  to  memory,  I  often  find  that 
he  makes  a  note  in  writinij;  after  this  fashion  :  '  Like  So-and-so, 


A    CHAT  BETWEEN  MY  PEN  AND   PENCIL. 


139 


PENGUIN. 


with  a  clifFerence/ — and  the  clifFerence  is  noted.     Or  '  Think  of 

an  animal,  a  bird,  or  a  fish,  and  to  that  add  So-and-so,  and  sub- 
tract So-and-so,'  and  this  results  in  a  portrait.     For  instance,  if 

he  saw  a  man  like  this,  I  should  not  be 

surprised  by  his  writing  a  single  word  as 

'  Penguin  '  for  his  guidance,  and  so  on." 
"  The    old  caricaturists,  I  suppose,   had 

a  decided  advantao;e  over  the  moderns  in 

having  artistic  costumes  to  depict  ? "  asked 

the  Pen. 

"  Of  course,"  replied  the  Pencil.     "  Even 

up   to    the    time    of    Seymour   the    tailor 

made  the  man,  and  was,  therefore,  largely 

responsible   for  the   caricature.     You  have 

only  to  see   Mr.   Brown   in   the    ordinary 

attire  of  to-day  and  also  in  Court  dress  to 

appreciate  this,  and  sympathise  with  me." 
"  Now  here  is  another  point,"  continued 

the  Pen,  "  upon  which  you  can  throw  some 

light,  old  fellow.      I  have  often  seen  letters  on  the  writing-table 

from  people  asking   H.   F.   for  his  recipe   for   the  making    of 

caricatures.     I  invariably  scribble  the  same  reply,  'Find  out  the 

chief  points  and  ex- 
^^  i^^f  jf\^^      (V^        aggerate  them.'    Not 

^^^■rrajp^  ii^sS^^e^  satisfied  with  this, 
some  have  asked  him 
to  explain  his  modus 
operandi^  "I  re- 
collect an  instance," 
replied  the  Pencil. 
"It  w^as  in  the  studio 

MR.  BROWN,  ORDINARY  ATTIRE.        COURT  DRESS.  ,  .        . 

here.  An  interviewer 
called,  and  asked  H.  F.  to  explain  the  art  of  caricature.  So  he 
took  down  a  volume  of  portraits  from  the  book-shelves,  and 
opened  it  at  this  one.  You  see  it  is  the  head  of  a  man  who 
should  be  universally  respected  by  us  of  the  grey  goose 
fraternity.       '  Well,   you  see  there  is  not  much  to   caricature,' 


140 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


said  H.  F.  ;  '  it  is  simply  the  portrait  of  a  kindly,  intellectual- 
lookins:  man,  the  late  Chief  Librarian  of  the  British  Museum, 

I  remember  well," 
continued  the  Pencil, 
l)rightening  up, 
"H.  F.  took  me  in 
hand,  and  telling  me 
to  knock  over  the 
forehead,  keep  in  the 
eyes,  pull  the  nose, 
and  wipe  off  the 
chin,  produced  a 
caricature  '  on  the 
spot/" 

"  I  suj^pose  some- 
times you  find  cari- 
catures   ready-made,    Mr.    Pencil  %  "    continued    the    Pen. 

"  Of  course  we  do,"  replied  the  Pencil.  "  Nature  will  have  her 
joke  sometimes,  nor  can  we  blame  her,  for  it  is  only  by  reason  of 
contrast  that  we  admire  the  beautiful.  A  propoH 
of  this,  my  dear  Pen,  I  may  tell  you  that  in 
county  Wexford,  in  Ireland,  there  is  a  certain 
very  beautiful  estate,  round  which  runs  a 
carefully-built  wall.  At  a  particular  point  the 
regularity  ceases,  and  the  wall  runs  on,  con- 
structed in  every  conceivable  style,  and  contrary 
to  all  the  canons  of  masonry.  There  is  a  legend 
that  the  owner  of  the  estate, 
tired  of  the  monotonous  ap- 
pearance of  the  wall,  ordered 
that  a  certain  space  should  be  left  in  it  which 
sliould  be  filled  up  with  a  barrier  as  irregular 
in  construction  as  possible.  This  was  done, 
and  that  portion  of  the  wall  is  called  the 
'  Ha-ha  ! '  because  so  funny  does  it  look  that 
everyone  who  passes  is  observed  to  laugh. 
A'or  A  CARICATURE,    Now  is  it  uot  mucli  the  same  in  Nature  !    A 


A   CARICATUEE. 


A    CHAT  BETWEEN  MY  PEN  AND   PENCIL.  141 

world  full  of  Venuses  and  Adonises  would  soon  pall.  So 
now  and  then  we  find  a  human  '  Ha-ha  I  '  interspersed 
among  them.  In  that  case,  I  say,  the  caricaturist's  work  is 
already  done.  He  has  simply  to  copy  Nature.  Yet  there  are 
some  who  actually  find  fault  with  H.  F.  for  doing  that  very 
thing,  saying  that  his  pencil  (that's  me)  is  '  unkind,'  '  cruel,' 
'gross,'  and  so  on.  Tiiere  are  many  M.P.'s  whom  he  habitually 
draws  without  the  slightest  exaggeration,  notwithstanding  which, 
Mr.  Pen,  there  are  members  of  your  calling  who  do  not  scruple 
to  inform  the  world  that  in  drawing  the  Parliamentary  '  Ha- 
ha ! '  as  he  is,  H.  F.  is  libelling  him.     There  is  one  M.P.  in 

particular No,  I  shall  not  give  his  name  or  show  his  portrait. 

I  believe  him  to  ho.  very  clever,  very  interesting,  undeniably  a 
great  man,  and  extremely  vain  of  his  personal  appearance.  But 
he  is  built  contrary  to  all  the  laws  of  Nature,  and  if  H.  F.  draws 
him  as  he  is,  he  is  accused  of  libelling  him.  If  he  improves  him, 
no  one  knows  him.  Oh,  Mr.  Pen,  you  may  take  it  from  me 
that  the  lot  of  the  caricaturist  is  not  a  happy  one." 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,"  put  in  the  Pen,  "  neither  is  the 
painter's.     You  know  Gay's  lines : 

"  So  very  like,  a  painter  drew, 
That  every  eye  the  picture  knew, 
He  hit  complexion,  feature,  air. 
So  just,  the  life  itself  was  there. 
He  gave  each  muscle  all  its  strength, 
The  mouth,  the  chin,  the  nose's  length, 
His  honest  pencil  touched  with  truth. 
And  marked  the  date  of  age  and  youth. 
He  lost  his  friends,  his  practice  failed, — 
Truth  should  not  always  be  revealed." 

But  Gay  did  not  live  in  the  days  of  Sargent  1  " 

"We  are  getting  on  nicely,"  said  the  Pen.  "Now  answer  a 
question  which  is  often  put  to  me — viz.,  why  caricaturists  eschew 
paint  1 " 

"  Because,"  replied  the  Peucil,  "  people  often  seem  to  forget 
that  in  the  present  day,  when  events  follow  each  other  in  quick 
succession,  a  subject  becomes  stale  almost  before  the  traditional 


142  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

Dine  days'  interest  in  it  lias  expired — that  paint  is  no  longer  the 
medium  by  which  a  caricaturist  can  possibly  express  his  thoughts. 
Of  course,  I  am  not  referring  to  mere  tinting,  such  as  that  in 
which  the  old  caricaturists  had  their  drawings  reproduced,  but  to 
colouring  in  oils,  after  the  manner  of  the  great  satirist  Hogarth. 
Some  may  remember  H.  F.'s  caricature  in  Punch  of  the  late 
Serjeant-at-Arms,  Captain  Gosset,  as  a  black-beetle.  Now,  had 
he  painted  a  full-length  portrait  of  him,  and  sent  it  elaborately 
framed  to  the  Royal  Academy,  it  would  not  only  have  taken 
him  very  much  longer  to  execute,  but  the  Captain  would  not 
have  looked  a  whit  more  like  a  black-beetle  than  he  did  in 
black  and  white  in  the  pages  of  Punch. 

"  It  must  be  remembered,  also,  that  in  caricature  everything 
depends  upon  contrast.  For  instance,  in  a  Parliamentary  sketch 
he  can  easily  make  Sir  William  Harcourt  inflate  himself  to  such 
an  extent  that  he  occupies  a  good  third  of  the  picture,  but  were 
he  to  paint  a  portrait  of  him  of  similar  proportions  it  would  be 
necessary  to  take  the  roof  off"  Burlington  House  and  bring  over 
the  Eifi'el  Tower  to  which  to  hang  the  enormous  frame  that 
would  be  requisite.  Moreover,  there  would  be  an  additional 
disadvantage,  for  it  would  be  impossible  to  take  in  the  whole 
figure  at  once,  and  it  would  be  necessary  to  mount  the  first 
platform  at  least  to  obtain  a  peep  at  even  the  lowest  of  the 
series  of  chins  which  distinguishes  the  descendant  of  kings. 
However,  it  is  just  on  the  cards  that  some  day  he  may  open  a 
Parliamentary  Portrait  Gallery,  and  then  I  can  promise  that 
Sir  William  Avill  have  justice  done  to  him  at  last.  Sixteen 
yards  of  'Historicus'  would  assuredly  be  enough  to  draw  the 
town.  But,  in  point  of  fact,  it  would  be  just  as  reasonable  to 
ask  an  actor  why  he  is  not  an  opera  singer  as  well,  or  to  ask  an 
opera  singer  why  he  does  not  dispense  with  the  music  and  play 
in  legitimate  tragedy,  as  to  enquire  of  a  modern  caricaturist  why 
he  does  not  work  in  colours." 

The  Pencil,  after  tlie  delivery  of  this  discourse,  rolled  over  to 
the  barber-knife,  who  trimmed  him  up. 

"  There  are  some  })eople,"  continued  the  Pen,  "  who  object 
to  be  sketelied  in  any  shape  or  form.      1  recollect  an  editor  once 


A    CHAT  BETWEEN  MY  PEN  AND   PENCIL.  143 

challenging  H.  F.  to  get  a  sketch  of  an  interesting  man  who  had 
defied  photographers  and  artists  alike,  and  absolutely  refused  to 
have  his  portrait  taken.  You  will  find  a  paragraph  about  this 
in  press-cutting  book,  marked  '  Pritt.'  Just  read  it  when  I'm 
being  attended  to." 

"  Mr.  Pritt,  Leeds,  is  reckoned  chief  of  the  Yorkshire  anglers.  '  A 
striking  pecuharity  with  him,'  a  Yorkshire  correspondent  says,  'is  that 
he  never  will  sit  for  his  likeness.  Mr.  Harry  Furniss,  however,  the  well- 
known  artist  of  Punch,  during  his  recent  visit  to  Leeds,  on  the  occasion  of 
the  meeting  of  the  British  Association,  managed  to  '  take  '  Mr.  Pritt ;  and 
the  portrait,  drawn  in  characteristic  style,  appears  in  the  Yorkshire  Weekly 
under  the  heading  '  Caught  at  Last'." 

"  Yes,  that's  it.  H.  F.  was  invited  to  dine  by  this  curious  and 
clever  individual. 

"  '  Delighted  to  see  you,  Mr.  Furniss ;  but  one  thing  I  must 
ask  you  to  understand  at  once — I'm  not  going  to  be  sketched.' 

"  '  I  assure  you,'  he  said,  '  I  shall  not  sketch  you  unless  you 
are  well  aware  I  am  drawing  you,  and,  in  fact,  willingly  give  me 
assistance.' 

"  'That's  very  good  of  you.  Now  I  am  happy.  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  I  shall  never  allow  my  face  to  be  drawn  or 
photographed,  and  once  I  make  up  my  mind  nothing  in  the 
v/orld  will  move  me.' 

"  '  Indeed  ! '  he  replied.  '  But,  pardon  me,  you  have  not  always 
had  that  antipathy.  I  am  looking  at  a  photograph  of  you  hanging 
on  the  wall  there,  taken  when  you  were  a  baby.' 

"  '  Oh,  ah  !  Do  you  detect  that  %  No  one  knows  it  to  be 
me.  Of  course,  I  was  not  accountable  for  my  actions '  at 
that  age.' 

" '  Ah,  how  you  have  altered  !  Dear  me  !  why,  your  nose  is 
not  that  shape  now.  Here  it  is  Roman  ;  you  have  a  sort 
of ' 

"  '  Have  a — what,  eh  1 ' 

"  '  Have  you  a  pencil  ? '  (Taking  me  out.)  '  This  will  do. 
Now,  your  nose  is  like  that.' 

"  '  Is  it "?     But  my  mouth  is  the  same,  isn't  it '? ' 

"  '  Not  quite — I  will  show  you.' 


144  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A   CARICATURIST. 

"  '  Of  course,  my  chin  isn't  as  round  ? ' 

"  '  Oh,  no  !  It's  mo'rc  like  this.  And  you  have  less  hair — 
see  here.' 

" '  Dear  me !  Of  course,  one  can  see  who  this  is.  This 
astonishes  me.' 

"  Someone  else  coming  in  at  that  moment,  he  quickly  pocketed 
the  sketch  and  me,  and,  much  to  his  host's  chagrin,  it  was  duly 
published  as  a  portrait  of  the  gentleman  from  a  '  special  sitting ' 
— '  Caught  at  Last.' 

"This  reminds  me,  by  the  way,  of  a  portrait  which  H.  F. 
once  drew  of  the  author  of  '  Happy  Thoughts '  as  a  frontispiece 

to  a  new  edition  of  that  humorous  book 
of  books.  Our  o-uv'nor's  first  effort  at 
this  portrait  was  distinctly  a  failure,  and 
no  wonder,  for  the  moment  I  was  pro- 
duced the  editor  of  Punch  turned  his 
back  upon  us,  and,  with  the  greatest 
vigour,  commenced  writing  at  his  table. 
Not  beinor  so  intimate  then  with  Mr. 
Burnand  as  we  subsequently  became, 
both  I  and  the   guv'nor  thouorht   him 

THE      EDITOR     OF    PUNCH  ,  °  .  ,  . 

SITS  FOR  HIS  PORTRAIT.     pcculiaF.     But  after  a  considerable  time 

the  editorial  chair  was  wheeled  round, 
and  with  a  smile  its  genial  occupant  said  calmly,  'Well,  let  me 
see  the  result.' 

*'  *  The  result  is  nil  at  present,'  replied  H.  F.,  '  for  I  have  not 
yet  caught  a  glimpse  of  your  face.' 

"Mr.  Burnand  looked  surprised.  'Dear  me!'  he  said;  'I 
thought  you  were  making  a  study  of  me  at  work,  you  know.' 

"  'All  I  could  see  was  the  back  of  your  head  in  silhouette. 
There  now — sit  just  as  you  are,  please.  That's  exactly  the 
pose  and  expression  which  I  want  to  catch.  Thanks  ! '  cried 
the  guv'nor,  as  he  rapidly  set  to  work,  when  suddenly  all 
cheerfulness  vanished  from  Mr.  Burnand's  countenance,  as  with 
a  horrified  look  he  pointed  to  the  table  by  my  side,  where  lay 
the  sketehiiio-  materials, 

"  '  What's  that  ' '  he  cried,  dismayed. 


A    CHAT  BETWEEN  MY   PEN  AND   PENCIL. 


145 


" '  Ob,  a  lump  of  bread,  useful  in  touching  up  high  lights/ 
said  H.  F. 

" '  You  don't  say  so  !  The  sight  of  it  quite  upset  me.  I 
really  thought  you  had  brought  your  supper  with  you,  and 
intended  to  work  from  me  all  night.  I  shall  never  recover  my 
natural  expression  this  evening,  so  please  call  again.'  And  as 
H.  F.  closed  his  sketch-book,  the  following  brief  colloquy  took 
place  : 

"  The  editor  of  '  Happy  Thoughts '  :  '  Caught  anything  ? ' 

"FL  F.  :  'No.' 

"  The  editor  :   '  Good  even- 


ing 1 

"  And  the  door  closed. 

"  Frequently  a  subject  has 
posed  for  H.  F.  without  being 
aware  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
making  a  sketch.  For  in- 
stance, in  his  happy  hunting 
ground — Parliament — Brown, 
M.P.,  say,  comes  up  to  him  in 
the  Lobby  :  '  Ha  !  I  see  you 
are  up  to  mischief — taking 
someone  off.' 

"  H.    F,    gives  a  knowing  look,  and  points  to  Jones. 

"  '  Ha !  ha  I  I  see.  I'll  talk  to  him.  Ha  I  ha  !  and  I'll 
look  out  for  the  caricature.  Don't  be  too  hard  on  poor 
Jones ! ' 

"  '  Thanks,  awfully,'  replies  H.  F.  He  makes  a  rapid  sketch, 
nods  to  Brown  as  much  as  to  say,  '  That'll  do,'  smiles,  and  walks 
off.  He  has  of  course  never  troubled  about  .lones  at  all;  it's 
Brown  he  has  been  sketching  all  the  time. 

"  It  is  utterly  absurd  to  imagine  you  can  escape  from  the 
caricaturist. 

"  H.  F.  trained  himself  to  make  sketches  with  his  hand  in  his 
pocket,  and  worked  away  with  me  and  his  book — or  rather 
caids,  which  he  had  specially  for  the  purpose — whilst  looking 
straight  into  the  face  of  his  victim.      He  manages  in  this  way  to 

C. — VOL.    I.  L 


146  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

sketch  people  sitting  opposite  to  liim  in  the  train,  and  sometimes 
when  talkinof  to  them  all  the  time. 

"You  know  that  without  special  permission  from  tlie  Lord 
High  Great  Cliamberlain  no  stranger  is  allowed  to  pass  the  door 
of  the  English  House  of  Lords,  even  when  it  is  empty  ;  but 
when  the  precious  Peers  are  sitting,  the  difficulty  of  making  a 
sketch  is  too  great  for  description.  You  are  not  allowed  to  sit 
down,  speak,  smile,  sneeze,  or  sketch.  H.  F.  once  produced  me 
in  the  House  of  Lords.  Had  he  drawn  a  sword  instead  of  a 
pencil  he  could  not  have  created  greater  consternation.  Ex- 
planation was  useless.  The  officials  knew  that  he  was  only  for 
'  takkin'  notes'  for  Punch,  but  the  vision  of  a  pencil  produced  an 
effect  upon  them  the  same  as  if  they  had  caught 
sight  of  an  infernal  machine.  But  necessity  is 
the  mother  of  invention.  It  was  then  he  hit 
upon  the  plan  I  have  just  told  you  about.  He 
draws  in  his  pocket.  Keeping  the  card  against 
his  leg,  he  sketches  quite  easily.  A  pocket 
Hercules  is  an  oft  enouo;h  heard-of  individual 
— so  why  not  a  pocket  artist  1 

"Previous  to  this  he  used  to  make  a  rapid 
SHIRT-CUFF.  ^^ot^  ^^  ^^i^  shirt-cutf ;  but  that  is  a  dangerous 
practice.  AVives  might  resent  the  face  if  it  were 
too  pretty,  and  your  washerwoman  might  recognise  a  Member 
of  Parliament  as  her  intimate  friend.  'J'he  incident  which 
cured  him  of  using  his  shirt-cuff  for  sketching  happened  at  a 
large  dinner,  where  he  was  introduced  to  the  wife  of  a  well- 
known  public  man,  who  soon  showed  she  was  not  altogether 
pleased  by  the  introducti(m,  and  truly  at  the  moment  he  had 
forgotten  that  he  had  made  a  sketch  of  the  lady  on  his  shirt-cuff, 
which  he  did  not  take  sufficient  care  to  conceal. 

"  I  recollect  once  on  the  terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons  he 
was  sketching  a  lady  of  foreign  extraction,  the  wife 
of  a  gentleman  well-known  to  the  Irish  Party,  with 
a  })rofile  something  like  this.  I  made  the  sketch, 
unfortunately,  on  the  marble  tea-table.  When  H.  F.'s  friends 
were    lea  vino-,    he  found    he  could  not   rub  this  off  the  table, 


A    CHAT  BETWEEN  MY  PEN  AND   PENCIL.  147 

and  what  embarrassed  him  more  was  the  fact  that  some  Irish 

Members  were  bearing  down  to  take  possession    of  the  table 

as    soon    as  we  left.      I  had    a    rapid  vision   of   our    guv'nor 

floating  in  the  Thames,  being  hurled  over  by 

the  infuriated    Members  from  the  Emerald 

Isle;  so  I  quickly  transformed  the  lady  into 

something  resembling  a  popular  Member  of 

Parliament   at   the    time,  and,   as   we   were 

leaving,  I  overheard  an  Irish  Member  say, 

'  Bedad  !  and  Furniss  has  been  dhrawin'  that 

owld  beauty,  Mundella!  '  "mundella." 

"  Have   you   anything  new  I  ^'  asked  the 
Pen.     "  May  I  look  {     I  know  that  St.  Stephen's  is  your  happy 
hunting  ground." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  responded  the  Pencil,  "  I  know  it  well.  But  I  can 
tell  you  it  is  not  altogether  a  bed  of  roses.  When  we  come 
across  Members  who  have  taken  liberties  with  their  personal 
appearance  during  the  recess,  H.  F.  and  I  resent  it,  I  can 
tell  you." 

"  Naturally,"  observed  the  Pen  in  a  voice  of  the  utmost 
sympathy,  "for  it  means  more  work." 

"Of  course,"  continued  the  Pencil.  "  Now  I  have  always  held 
that  model  M.P.'s  have  no  right  to  alter.  They  are  the  property 
of  the  political  caricaturist,  and  what  on  earth  is  to  become  of 
him  if  the  bearded  men  begin  to  shave  and  the  smooth-faced  to 
disguise  themselves  in  '  mutton-chops  '  or  '  Dundrearys  '  %  Yet 
they  will  do  it.  We  may  draw  them  in  their  new  guise,  but 
the  public  won't  have  them  at  any  price.  They  want  their  old 
favourites,  and  if  they  miss  a  well-known  '  Imperial,'  a  moustache, 
a  pair  of  dyed  whiskers,  or  other  such  hall-mark  in  the  picture, 
or  on  the  other  hand  find  a  set  of  familiar  chins  concealed 
beneath  an  incipient  Newgate  fringe,  a  nose  and  chin  which 
have  been  accustomed  to  meet  for  many  a  long  year  suddenly 
divided  by  the  intrusion  of  a  bristly  moustache,  or  a  delightfully 
asinine  expression  lost  under  the  influence  of  a  pair  of  bushy 
side- whiskers,  recognition  becomes  impossible  and  the  caricature 
falls  flat.      The  fact  is,  my  friend  Pen,  it  is  not  only  their  features, 

L  2 


148  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

but  their  characteristic  attitudes  which  we  make  familiar,  and 
their  political  differences  cause  the  artistic  effect.  To  me  it  is 
marvellous  to  note  how  ditferently  artists  draw  the  same  head. 
Expression  of  course  varies,  but  the  construction  of  the  head 
must  always  remain  the  same.  Yet  I  have  seen  no  less  a  head 
than  that  of  Mr,  Gladstone  so  altered  in  appearance  in  the  work 
of  different  artists  that  I  have  been  forcibly  reminded  of  the  old 
story  of  St,  Peter's  skull,  A  tourist  travelling  in  Italy  was 
shown  a  cranium  at  Rome  which  he  was  assured  was  the  verit- 
able relic.  In  Florence  he  was  shown  another,  and  somewhere 
else  he  was  shown  a  third.  Upon  his  remonstrating  the  guide 
observed,  "  It  is  quite  right,  sir :  the  skull  you  saw  at  Rome  was 
that  of  St,  Peter  when  he  was  a  boy  ;  that  at  Florence  was  his 
when  he  was  a  young  man,  and  this  was  his  skull  when  he  died,' 

"  Then  again,  familiarity  with  the  subject  is  only  arrived  at 
by  continually  watching  and  sketching  a  Member,  A  few  years 
ago  I  was  lying  down  in  my  berth  in  the  sketch-book  which  was 
in  H,  F,'s  pocket,  when  I  overheard  a  conversation  between  him 
and  Mr.  Labouchere  upon  Parliamentary  portraits." 

"What  did  H.  F.  say  about  them  ?"  asked  the  Pen.  "He 
ought  to  know  the  alphabet  of  Parliamentary  portraiture  at  all 
events  by  this  time." 

"  You're  right,"  nodded  the  Pencil.  "  He's  drawn  a  few 
thousand  of  them  in  his  time.  What  did  H.  F.  say  ?  Well, 
he  told  Labouchere  that  he  always  created  a  type  for  each 
Member,  and  to  that  he  adheres." 

"  '  Yes,'  said  the  Sage,  late  of  Queen  Anne's  Gate,  '  and  when 
the  original  turns  up,  those  who  derive  their  impression  of  a 
Member  from  your  sketches  are  disappointed  if  the  two  do  not 
exactly  tally.'" 

"  But  surely  our  guv'nor  docs  not  sketch  direct  from  life  ? " 
asked  the  Pen,  amazed. 

"Of  course  he  does,"  indignantly  replied  the  Pencil.  "He 
whips  me  out  of  my  bed  at  all  times,  but  as  he  pointed  out  to 
tlie  ]\lem1)er  f(.»r  Northampton  (see  how  Parliamentary  I  am 
getting),  it  would  never  do  invariably  to  sketch  a  man  as  you 
see  him.      '  For   instance,'   went    on   H.   F.   addressing  him,  '  I 


A    CHAT  BETWEEN  MY  PEX  AJD   PENCIL. 


149 


made  a  sketch  of  you,  Mr.  Labouchere,  in  the  corridor  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  kneeling  on  a  seat,  and  had  I  never  seen 
you  before,  I  should  liave  no  doubt  used  this  as  a  characteristic 
instead  of  an  accidental  attitude  of  yours.' 

"  Just  fancy  what  you  would  have  written,  my  dear  Pen,  if 
you  had  seen  in  Punch  one  of  H.  F.'s  portraits  of  Lord  Hartington 
with  his  hat  upon  the  back  of  his  head  instead  of  over  his  eyes, 
or  Mr.  Gladstone  depicted  with  a  Shakespeare  collar,  or  Mr.  Cyril 
Flower  without  one,  or  Mr.  Arnold  Morley  smiling,  or  Mr.  Balfour 
looking  cross,  or  Mr.  Broadhurst  in  evening  dress,  or  Mr.  Ciiamber- 
lain  without  an  orchid  in  the  button-hole  of  his  coat !  Yet  I 
venture  to  say  the  time  has  been  when  Mr.  Chamberlain  may 
have  had  to  rush  down  to  the  House 
orchidless,  and  when  Mr.  Broadhurst  may 
have  worn  evenin<]c  dress.     Strano;er  things 

O  DO 

than  that  have  happened,  I  can  tell  you. 
I  have  actually  seen  the  irrepressible  smile 
vanish  from  the  face  of  Mr.  John  Morley. 
But  never — no,  never,  v/ill  I  believe  that  the 
ex-Chief  Liberal  Whip  has  ever  looked  jovial, 
that  Mr.  Gladstone  and  Mr.  Cyril  Flower  ever 
exchanged  collars,  or  that  Lord  Hartington 
ever  wore  his  hat  at  the  back  of  his  head. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  my  dear  Pen,  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  Lord  Randolph 
Churchill  did  not  wear  imitation  G.O.M.  collars,  that  Mr.  Herbert 
Gladstone  is  no  longer  in  his  teens,  that  Mr.  Gladstone  was 
not  always  so  wild-looking  as  H.  F.  usually  represented  him, 
and  that  perhaps  Sir  William  Harcourt  is  not  simply  an 
elephantine  mass  of  egotism." 

"  Then  why  did  he  draw  them  so  ? "  enquired  the  Pen. 

"  Ah  !  that  is  the  secret  of  the  caricaturist,"  laughed  the 
Pencil.  "  There  is  something  more  in  politicians,  you  know, 
than  meets  the  eye,  and  the  caricaturist  tries  to  record  it.  You're 
so  captious,  my  dear  Pen.  It  is  not  given  to  everyone  to  see  a 
portrait  properly,  however  true  it  may  be.  Some  folks  there 
are  who  are  colour-blind.     There  are  others  who  are  portrait- 


MR.  LABOUCHERE. 


150 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


bliiul.  Others  again  arc  Ijliiid  to  the  humorous.  An  old  M.P. 
came  up  to  H.  F.  one  day  in  the  Lol)by  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons when  a  new  Parliament  had  assembled  for  the  first  time, 
and  said  to  him,  *  Well,  you  have  a  rich  harvest  for  your  pencil 
(that  was  me).  I  never  saw  such  odd  specimens  of  humanity 
assembled  together  before,' 

" '  That  may  be  so,'  replied  H.  F.,  '  but  mark  my  words,  after 

a  session  or  two,  my  comic 
sketches  of  the  Members — for 
which,  by  the  way,  the  speci- 
mens you  are  looking  at  are 
merely  notes,  and  which  you 
are  now  good  enough  to  call 
faithful  portraits — will  become 
so  familiar  to  you  that  they  will 
cease  to  amuse  you.  And  you 
may  even  come  to  pronounce 
them  gross  libels.  In  other 
words,  you  will  find  that  their 
frequent  repetition  will  rob  them 
in  your  eyes  of  their  comic 
character  altogether,  just  as  in 
the  case  with  the  attendants  at 
the  Zoo,  on  whose  faces  you  will  fail  to  detect  the  ghost  of  a  smile 
at  the  most  outrageous  pranks  of  the  monkeys,  although  you  shall 
see  everyone  else  in  the  place  convulsed  with  laughter.'" 

"  But  surely,  Mr.  Pencil,"  argued  the  Pen,  "  you  lose  friends 
by  caricaturing  them  ?" 

"  Not  those  who  are  worthy  of  friendship,"  replied  the  Pencil, 
with  a  solemn  air.  "And  those  who  cannot  take  a  joke  are  not 
worthy  of  it.  H.  F.  is  not  a  portrait  painter.  It  makes  the  lead 
turn  in  my  case  to  witness  the  snol)bishness  which  exists  nowadays 
among  certain  thin-skinned  artists  and  writers.  The  Society  grub 
has  eaten  the  heart  out  of  all  true  artistic  ambitions.  An  honest 
satirist  has  no  chance  nowadays.  He  must  not  draw  what  he  sees, 
or  Avrite  what  he  really  thinks  about  it.  Pleasing  wishy-washiness 
is  idolised,  whilst  HoQ-arth  is  voted  coarse.    Great  Scott !    How  this 


THE   M.P. 
REAL   AND   IDEAL. 


A    CHAT  BETWEEN  MY  PEN  AND   PENCIL. 


151 


age  of  cigarettes  and  lemon  squash  would  have  stirred  the  pulse 
and  nerved  the  brush  of  the  greatest  of  English  caricaturists  !  " 
Then    as    the   Pencil    wiped  away  a  tear  of  regret  for  the 


^^?*J^ 


THE   PHOTO. 


AS  HE   EEALLY   IS. 


decadence  of   English    satirical    art   the  Pen  jotted  down  the 
following  lines  culled  from  the  old  tomb-stone  at  Chiswick : 

o 

"  If  Genius  fire  thee  Stranger  stay, 
If  Nature  touch  thee,  drop  a  tear. 
If  neither  move  thee,  turn  away, 
For  Hogarth's  honoured  dust  Hes  here." 

"  When  he  has  not  seen  a  Member,  and  has  no  reference  to 
go  by,  how  does  he  manage  ? " 

"  He  does  not  find  photography  of  much  use.  Sometimes,  if 
he  has  to  draw  a  man  for  some  special  reason,  and  has  not  seen 
him,  a  photograph  is,  of  course,  th  e  only  means  possible  ;  then  he 
generally  gets  a  letter  something  like  this  : 

"  '  Dear  Sir, — I  enclose  you  a  photograph  of  myself,  the  only  one  I 
possess.  It  belongs  to  my  wife,  and  she  has  reluctantly  lent  it,  and  trusts 
you  will  take  every  care  of  it  and  return  it  at  once.  It  was  taken  on  our 
wedding  trip.  I  may  mention  that  I  have  less  hair  at  the  top  of  my  head 
and  more  on  my  face,  and  I  may  seem  to  some  a  trifle  older.' 


152  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

"  Well,  here,  you  see,  H.  F.  has  to  use  his  judgment. 

"  But  to  my  surprise  H.  F.  received  a  visit  from  the  original 
of  the  photograph  shortly  after  his  sketch  was  published,  who 
came  to  inform  the  guv'nor  that  no  one  could  possibly  recognise 
him  in  the  sketch ;  and  when  I  saw  him  in  the  flesh  1  quite 
believed  him.  You  can  judge  from  the  sketch  how  useful  the 
photograph  was. 

"The  second  appeareince  of  the  new  and  ambitious  M.P.  in  the 
pages  of  Punch  did  not  satisfy  the  legislator  either.  It  was  not 
his  face  he  took  exception  to,  but  his  boots,  like  Mr.  Goldfinch 
in  'A  Pair  of  Spectacles.'  He  lost  faith  in  his  bootmaker, 
squeezed  his  extremities  into  patent  leather  shoes  of  the  most 
approved  and  uncomfortable  make,  and  hobbled,  through  the 
Lobbies  doing  penance  at  the  shrine  of  caricature.  A  caricature, 
you  see,  does  not  depend  upon  the  face  alone. 

"One  of  H.  F.'s  earliest  Parliamentary  caricatures  was  a  sketch 
of  Mr.  Henry  Broadhurst,  the  deservedly  popular  representative 
of  the  working  classes.  He  was  Member  for  Stoke  when  the 
sketch  was  made.  There  is  no  affectation  about  him.  Neither 
the  skin  that  covers  his  solid  frame  nor  that  which  encases  his 
active  feet  is  thin.  His  figure  is  one  of  the  best  known  and 
most  characteristic  in  Parliament.  Who  is  not  familiar  with  the 
round,  determined  little  head,  with  the  short  cropped  hair,  the 
square-cut  beard,  the  shrewd  expression,  the  genial  smile,  the 
short  jacket,  the  horsey  trousers,  the  round  hat,  and  the  thick 
boots  ?  The  figure  often  appeared  iu  Mr.  Punch's  Parliamentary 
Portrait  Gallery.  When  our  friend  the  late  William  Woodall 
introduced  his  fellow-candidate  to  the  electors  of  Stoke  a  voice 
cried  out,  '  We  know  'ini  !  we  know  'im  1  We've  seen  'is  boots 
in  Fundi  ! ' 

"No  one  can  deny  that  the  potters  of  Staffordshire  are  an 
artistic  pulJic. 

"  Tlie  late  chief  pro})rietor  of  the  leading  paper  had  the  largest 
feet  ever  seen  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  a  certain  noble 
lord  ^\'hose  name  will  ever  l)c  connected  with  Majuba  carries  off 
the  palm  for  the  largest  in  the  Upjjcr  House.  The  new  Member 
for——  will,  iu  due  course,  owe  liis  Pai-liamentary  fame  to  the 


A    CHAT   BETWEEN'  MY   FEN  AND    PENCIL.  153 

extraordinary  heels  of  bis  boots,  if  nothing  else,  just  as  the  late 

Lord  Hardwicke's  reputation  was  due  to  the  mysterious  shine  of 

his  hat. 

"  But,  judging  from  the  illustrated  papers,  M.P.'s  all  wear  spats, 

new  trousers  every  day  (for  they  never  have  a  crease),  the  most 

beautifully-fitting  coats,  and  white  hats  with  black  bands  round 

them.     AVhy  are  they  drawn  so  ? "  asked  the  Pen. 

"  Excuse  the  familiar  vulgar  rejoinder — Ask  me  another." 

"  I  hear  it  said  that  you  never  caricature  women." 

"  What  rot !     Have  I  not  worked  in  illustrating  the  Members 

of  the  Houses  of  Parliament  for  years,  to  say  nothing  of  Judges 

and — their  wives  ?  " 

"  I  mean  young  women." 

"  Oh,  really  I  have  no  time  to  answer  these  questions  ;   here 

are  a  bundle  of  my  unpublished  caricatures  ;   take   them  and 

be  off." 


CHAPTER   VI. 


PARLIAMENTARY    CONFESSIONS. 


Gladstone  and  Disraeli — A  Contrast — An  un authenticated  Incident — Lord 
Beaconsfield's  last  Visit  to  the  House  of  Commons — My  Serious  Sketch 
— Historical — Mr.  Gladstone — His  Portraits — What  he  thought  of  the 
Artists — Sir  J.  E.  Millais — Frank  HoU — The  Despatch  Boxes— Impres- 
sions— Disraeli — Dan  O'Connell — Procedure — American  Wit — Toys — 
Wine — ^Pressure — Sandwich  Soiree — The  G.O.M.  dines  with  "Toby, 
M.P."  —  Walking  —  Quivering  —  My  Desk — An  Interview — Political 
Caricaturists — Signature  in  Sycamore— Scenes  in  the  Commons — 
Joseph  Gillis  Biggar — My  Double — Scenes — Divisions — Puck — Sir  R, 
Temple — Charles  Stewart  Parnell — A  Study — Quick  Changes — His  Fall 
— Eoom  15 — The  last  Time  I  saw  him — Lord  Eandolph  Churchill — His 
Youth — His  Height — His  Fickleness — His  Hair— His  Health — His 
Fall — Lord  Iddesleigh — Sir  Stafford  and  Mr.  Gladstone — Bradlaugh 
— His  Youth — His  Parents — His  Tactics — His  Fight — His  Extinction 

—  John  Bright — Jacob  Bright  —  Sir  Isaac  Holden  —  Lord  Derby — 

—  A  Political  Prophecy  —  A  Lucky  Guess — My  Confession  in  the 
Times — The  Joke  that  Failed — The  Seer — Fair  Play — I  deny  being  a 
Conservative — I  am  Encouraged — Chaff — Reprimanded — Misprinted 
• — Misunderstood . 


iL9*^^* 


J* 


Some  years  Ijcforc  ^Jr.  J)isracli  (juitted  the  House  of  Commons 
ii})oii  liis  elevation  to  the  Peerage,  I  enjoyed  witnessing  a  very 
remarkahle  encounter  Ijetween  liim  and  .Mr.  Gladstone.      It  was 


\ 


PARLIAMENTARY   CONFESSIONS.  157 

one\f  those  passage  of  arm^,  or  to  be  more  correct  I  should  say, 
perhaps,  of  words,  which  in  the  days  of  their  Parliamentary 
youth  were  so  frequent  between  the  great  political  rivals  ;  and 
although  I  am  unable  to  recall  the  particular  subject  of  the 
debate,  or  the  exact  date  of  its  occurrence,  I  well  remember 
that  Mr.  Gladstone  had  launched  a  tremendous  attack  ao;ainst 
his  opponent.  However,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  from 
the  outset   of  his    speech  it  was  evident  that   Mr.   Gladstone 


MmmmMmmh^'^ 


1. 

Dr.  Tanner. 

1.5. 

T.  Sexton. 

28. 

j 

2. 
3. 

Rt.  Hon.  A.  Akers-Douglas. 
Lord  A.  Hill. 

16. 
17. 

Sir  R.  H.  Fowler. 
Earl  Spencer. 

29. 
31 

^  Press. 

4. 

G.  Cavendish-Bentinck. 

18. 

Rt.  Hon.  J.  Chamberlain. 

31. 

1 

5. 

J.  A.  Picton. 

19. 

Admiral  Field. 

32. 

H.  W.  Lucy  {Tohy,  M.P.). 

6. 

Sir  W.  H.  Houldsworth. 

20. 

Sir  Frank  Lockwood. 

33. 

Rt.  Hon.  John  Morley. 

7. 

Sir  Albert  K.  Rollit. 

21. 

Rt.  Hon.  J.  B.  Balfour. 

34. 

Lord  Randolph  Chui-chill 

8. 

Rt.  Hon.  H.  Chaplin. 

22. 

Wm.  Woodall. 

35. 

-  Press  (Times). 

9. 

Sir  E.  Watkin. 

23. 

E.  Ashmead  Bartlett. 

36 

10. 

T.  W.  Russell. 

24. 

Baden-Powell. 

37. 

J.  Henniker  Heaton. 

11. 

Rt.  Hon.  C.  R.  Spencer. 

25. 

Sir  T.  W.  Maclure. 

38. 

James  A.  Jacoby. 

1-2. 

Christopher  Sykes. 

26. 

Marquis  of  Hartington 

39. 

Sir  H.  H.  Howorth. 

13. 

Lord  Halsbury. 

(Duke  of  Devonshire). 

40. 

R.  Power. 

14. 

H.  Labouchere. 

27. 

Sir  R.  Temple. 

41. 

C.  S.  Parnell. 

meant  war  to  the  knife,  that  as  it  proceeded  he  waxed  more  and 
more  hostile,  and  that  his  peroration  was  couched  in  the  most 
vehement  terms,  Disraeli  remained  to  the  finish  as  if  utterly 
unmoved,  sitting  in  his  customary  attitude  as  though  he  were 
asleep,  with  his  arms  hanging  listlessly  at  his  sides.  Once  only 
during  the  progress  of  the  attack  he  appeared  to  wake  up,  when, 
taking  his  single  eye-glass,  which  he  usually  kept  in  a  pocket  of 
his  waistcoat,  between  liis  finger  and  thumb,  he  calmly  surveyed 
the  House  as  if  to  satisfy  himself  how  it  was  composed,  just  as 
an  experienced  cricketer  eyes  the  field  before  batting,  in  order 


158 


CONFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


to  see  how  tlie  enemy  are  placed.  Then,  having  taken  stock  of 
those  present,  the  eye-glass  was  replaced  in  his  pocket,  and  to 
all  appearance  he  once  more  subsided  into  a  tranquil  slumber. 
But  this  was  only  a  feint,  for  the  very  instant  that  Mr.  • 
Gladstone  sat  down  up  jumped  Disraeli.  The  contrast  between 
liis  method   and  that  of  Mr.    Gladstone   was  very   noticeable. 

Placing  one 
hand  artistically 
upon  the  box  in 
front  of  him, 
and  tlie  other 
under  his  coat 
tails,  he  com- 
menced  to 
speak,  and  in 
the  calmest 
manner  possible, 
although  with 
the  most  telling 
and  polished 
satire,  he  aimed 
dart  after  dart 
across  the  table 
at  Mr.  Glad- 
stone. As  he 
proceeded  to 
traverse  the 
speech  of  his 
distinguished 
opi^onent  with 
the  most  perfect  and  effective  skill,  it  soon  became  evident  that 
in  reality  he  had  slept  with  one  eye  open.  With  masterly  tact, 
he  had  reserved  the  principal  point  in  his  reply  to  the  end,  and 
then,  l»ringinn"  his  full  force  to  l)ear  upon  it,  the  conclusion  of  his 
speech  told  witli  redoul)lG(l  effect, 

Whilst  u})()ii  the  subject  of  ^Ir.  Gladstone  and  Lord  Beacons- 
field.  1  may  narrate  a  remarkable  story,  although  I  am  unal)le  to 


LORD   BEACOXSFIKI.D.      A    SKETCH  FROM   LIFE. 


PARLIAMENTARY   COIiFESSIONS.  159 

vouch  for  the  accuracy  of  it,  as  I  cannot  remember  who  was  my 
original  informant,  nor  among  my  friends  in  or  out  of  Parlia- 
ment have  I  succeeded  in  discovering  anyone  who  actually 
witnessed  the  incident  to  which  it  refers.  Should  it  turn  out  to 
be  an  invention,  like  the  champagne  jelly  of  Lord  Beaconsfield 
or  the  eye-glass  of  Mr.  Bright,  I  shall  no  doul)t  be  corrected. 
But  if  on  the  contrary  the  anecdote  be  authentic,  I  may  earn 
some  thanks  for  resuscitating  it.  In  any  case  I  can  testify  that 
at  the  time  the  story  was  told  to  me  I  had  undoubtedly  every 
reason  to  believe  that  it  was  true. 

A  similar  scene  to  that  which  I  have  described  above  was 
taking  place  in  the  House  between  Mr.  Gladstone  and  Mr. 
Disraeli,  when  the  latter  in  the  course  of  his  remarks  had 
occasion  to  quote  a  passage  from  a  recent  speech  made  by  his 
rival  upon  some  platform  in  the  country. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Gladstone  started  up  and  exclaimed  : 

'■'  I  never  said  that  in  my  life  I  " 

Disraeli  was  silent,  and,  putting  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
simply  gazed  apparently  in  blank  astonishment  at  the  box  in 
front  of  him.  Several  seconds  went  by,  but  he  never  moved. 
The  members  in  the  crowded  House  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  many  imagined  that  Disraeli  was  merely  waiting  for 
his  opponent  to  apologise.  But  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  had  a  habit, 
which  he  developed  in  later  years,  of  chatting  volubly  to  his 
neighbour  during  any  interruption  of  this  kind  in  which  he  was 
concerned,  made  no  sign.  A  minute  passed,  but  the  sphinx  did 
not  move. 

A  minute  and  a  quarter,  but  he  was  still  motionless. 

A  minute  and  a  half  of  this  silence  seemed  as  if  it  was  an 
hour. 

When  the  second  minute  was  completed,  the  excitement  in 
the  House  beo;an  to  grow  intense.  Disraeli  seemed  to  be  trans- 
fixed.  Was  he  ill  ?  Was  the  great  man  sulking  ?  What  could 
this  strange  silence  portend  ? 

Two  minutes  and  a  half ! 

Some  Members  rose  and  approached  him,  but  Disraeli  raised 
his  hand  as  if  to  deprecate  their  interference,  and  they  stole  back 


160  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

to  their  places  conscious  that  they  were  forljidden  to  interrupt. 
Then,  at  hist,  when  the  second  hand  of  the  clock  had  passed 
three  times  round  its  course,  the  most  remarkable  silence  which 
the  House  had  ever  experienced  within  living  memory  was 
broken  as  the  Tory  leader  slowly  began  once  more  to  speak. 

"'Mr.  Chairman,'  "  he  said,  "'and  gentlemen,'" and  then  word 
for  word  he  repeated  the  whole  speech  of  Mr.  Gladstone  from 
which  he  had  made  his  quotation,  duly  introducing  the  particular 
passage  which  the  Liberal  leader  had  denied.  Then  he  paused 
and  looked  across  at  his  rival.  The  challenge  was  not  to  be 
avoided,  and  Mr.  Gladstone  bowed.  He  would  have  raised  his 
hat  did  he  wear  one  in  the  House,  which,  in  the  phraseology  of 
the  ring,  was  equivalent  to  throwing  up  the  sponge.  Mr.  Disraeli 
afterwards  informed  a  friend  that,  working  backwards,  he  had 
rec;dled  the  whole  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  speech  to  his  mind. 
Beginning  at  the  disputed  quotation,  he  recovered  the  context 
which  led  up  to  it,  and  so  step  by  step  the  entire  oration.  Then 
he  was  enabled  to  repeat  it  from  the  outset,  exactly  as  he  had 
read  it. 

I  saw  Lord  Beaconsfield  in  the  House  of  Commons  on  the 
occasion  of  his  last  visit  to  that  chamber  in  which  he  had  been 
the  moving  spirit.  I  well  recollect  that  morning.  There  had 
been  an  Irish  all-night  sitting :  the  House  was  supposed  to  be 
listenino;  to  the  droning^  of  some  Irish  "  Mimber."  The  officials 
were  weary,  the  legislative  chamber  was  untidy  and  dusty,  and 
many  of  those  present  had  not  had  their  clothes  off  all  night. 
Lord  Beaconsfield,  scented,  oiled,  and  curled,  the  daintiest  of 
dandies,  sits  in  the  gallery,  examining  the  scene  through  his 
single  eye-glass.  Leaning  over  him  stands  the  ever-faithful 
Monty  Corry — now  Lord  Eowton.  I  sat  within  a  few  yards  of 
them,  and  made  a  sketch  which  happens  to  be  the  most 
successful  study  I  ever  made.  The  Academy  wrote  of  it :  "  In 
humour  Mr.  Harry  Furniss  generally  excels  ;  but  his  portrait  of 
[jord  Beaconsfield  on  his  last  appearance  in  the  House  of 
Commons  is  something  else  than  amusing — it  is  pathetic,  almost 
tragic,  and  will  be  historical ;  "  and  columns  of  flattering  notices 
must  1)0  my  excuse  for  confessing  in  these  pages  that  1  myself 


';^*l^. 


THE   LAST   VISIT   OF   LOUD   BEACONSFIELD   TO   THE   HOUSE. 


C. — VOL.    I. 


M 


PARLIAMENTARY  CONFESSIONS. 


163 


consider   it    to    Ije    the    best    portrait    of    Lord    Beaconsfield, 
and  in  no  way  a  caricature. 

A  caricaturist  is  an  artis- 
tic contortionist.  He  is 
grotesque  for  effect.  A  con- 
tortionist twists  and  distorts 
himself  to  cause  amuse- 
ment, but  he  is  by  nature 
straight  of  limb  and  a 
student  of  grace  before  he 
can  contort  his  body  in 
burlesque  of  the  "  human 
form  divine."  Thus  also 
is  it  with  the  caricaturist 
and  his  pencil.  The  good 
points  of  his  subject  must 
be  plainly  apparent  to  him 
before  he  can  twist  his  study 
into  the  grotesque  ;  to  him 
it  is  necessary  that  the 
subhme  should  be  known 
and  appreciated  ere  he  can 
convert  it  into  the  ridicu- 
lous, and  without  the  aid 
of  serious  studies  it  is  im- 
possible for  him  fully  to 
analyse  and  successfully 
produce  the  humorous  and 
the  satirical.  Perchance  he 
may  even  entertain  a  feeling 
of  admiration  for  the  sul)- 
ject  he  is  holding  up  to 
ridicule,  for  serious  moments 
and  serious  work  are  no 
strangers  to  the  caricaturist. 

The  famous  collars  I  "  invented  "  for  grotesque  effect,  but  I 
always  saw  Mr.  Gladstone  without  them,  for  to  me  his  head  has 

M  2 


MR.  GLADSTONE.     A  SKETCH  FROM  LIFE. 


IG-t  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

never  been,  as  some  suppose,  a  mere  block  around  which  to 
wreathe  a  fantastic  and  exao-orcrated  collar. 

"  I  am  told  a  Japanese  artist  who  wishes  to  study  a  particular 
flower,  for  instance,  travels  to  the  part  of  the  country  where  it 
is  to  be  found  ;  he  takes  no  photographic  camera,  no  superb 
sketching  pad  or  box  of  paints,  but  he  lives  by  the  plant, 
watches  day  by  day  the  flower  grow,  blossom,  and  decay,  under 
every  condition,  and  mentally  notes  every  detail,  so  that  ever 
afterwards  he  can  paint  that  flower  in  every  possible  way  with 
fiicility  and  knowledge.  I  have  myself  treated  Mr.  Gladstone 
as  that  Japanese  artist  treats  the  beautiful  flower.  1  have 
frequently  sat  for  many  many  hours  watching  every  gesture, 
every  change  of  expression.  I  have  watched  the  colour  leave 
his  cheeks,  and  the  hair  his  head ;  I  have  marked  time  contract 
his  mouth,  and  have  noted  the  development  of  each  additional 
wrinkle.  I  have  mused  under  the  shade  of  his  collars,  and 
wondered  at  the  cut  of  his  clothes,  sketched  his  three  hats  and 
his  historical  umbrella.  More  than  that ;  during  a  great  speech 
I  have  seen  the  flower  in  his  buttonhole  fade  under  his  flow  of 
eloquence,  seen  the  bow  of  his  tie  travel  round  to  the  back  of 
his  neck." 

Thus  I  spoke  night  after  night  from  the  platform,  and  the 
laugh  always  came  with  the  collars.  It  was  not  as  a  serious 
critic  that  I  was  posing  l)efore  the  audience,  so  I  could  fittingly 
describe  the  collars  rather  than  the  man.  But  when  I  had  left 
the  platform  and  the  limelight,  and  my  caricatures,  I  have  had 
many  a  chat  with  ]\Ir.  Gladstone's  admirers,  with  regard  to  the 
light  in  which  I  saw  the  great  man  without  his  collars,  and 
this  fact  I  will  put  forward  as  my  excuse  for  publishing 
in  my  "  C*onfessions "  a  few  studies  that  I  have  made  from 
time  to  time  of  the  Grand  Old  Man,  as  an  antidote  not  only 
to  my  own  caricatures,  but  to  the  mass  of  Gladstone  por- 
traits published,  which,  with  very  few  exceptions,  are  idealised, 
perfunctory,  stereotyped,  and  worthless.  Generations  to  come 
will  not  take  tlieir  impressions  of  this  great  man's  appearance 
from  tlicse  uiisatisfaetory  canvases,  or  from  the  cuts  in  old- 
fashioiicd  ilhistratLMl  pa^x'i's,  in  wliieli  all  public  men  are  drawn 


MR.    GLADSTONE. 
'I  liavc  seen  the  flower  in  his  buttonhole  fa<le  under  liis  flow  of  eloquence." 

Kngraved  oi  wood  from  an  original  study. 


PARLIAMEXTARY   CONFESSION'S. 


167 


in  a  purely  conventional  tailor's  advertisement  fashion,  with 
perfect-fitting  coats,  trousers  without  a  crease,  faces  of  wax,  and 
figures  of  the  fashionable  fop  of  the  period.  The  camera  killed 
all  this.  But  the  photographer,  although  he  cannot  alter  the 
cut  of  the  clothes,  can  alter,  and  does  alter,  everything  else.  He 
touches  up  the  face  beyond  recognition,  and  the  pose  is  the  pose 
the  sitter  takes  before  the  camera,  and  probably  quite  different 
from  his  usual  attitude.  So  it  will  be  the  caricatures,  or,  to  be 
correct,  the  character  sketches, 
that  will  leave  the  best  im- 
pressions of  Mr.  Gladstone's 
extraordinary  individuality. 

I  heard  Mr.  Gladstone  express 
his  own  views  on  portraiture  one 
evening  at  a  small  dinner-party. 
My  host  of  that  evening  had  hit 
on  the  happy  idea  of  having 
portraits  of  the  celebrities  of  the 
age  painted  for  him  by  a  rising 
young  artist.  It  was  curious 
to  note  Mr.  Gladstone  as  he 
examined  these  portraits.  His 
manner  was  a  strange  comment 
on  the  political  changes  which 
had  taken  place,  for  as  he  came 
to  the  portraits  of  those  of  his 
old  supporters  who  no  longer 
fought  under  his  colours,  he  would  pass  them  by  as  though 
he  had  not  seen  them,  or  if  his  attention  were  called  to  any 
of  them  he  would  seem  not  to  recognise  the  likeness,  and 
pass  on  till  his  eye  lighted  on  some  political  ally  still 
numbered  among  the  faithful,  when  he  would  at  once  pro- 
nounce the  portrait  excellent,  and  dwell  upon  its  merits  with 
ap2^arent  delight.  A  portrait  of  Mr.  Labouchere,  however,  he 
generally  failed  to  recognise.  The  portrait  represented  the 
Member  for  Northampton  in  a  contemplative  mood,  certainly 
not  characteristic  of  his  habitual  demeanour  in  the  House. 


MR,  GLADSTONE — CONVENTIONAL 
PORTRAIT. 


168  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

"  I  have  found,"  said  lie,  "  the  artist  I  have  been  h)oking  for 
for  years.  I  have  found  an  artist  who  can  paint  my  portrait  in 
four  hours  and  a  half ;  he  has  painted  three  in  thirteen  hours; 
that  is  Millais," 

I  was  much  surprised  hy  this  curious  criticism  on  portrait 
painting.  Surely,  if  the  portrait  of  the  great  orator  is  to  be 
painted  in  four  hours  and  a  half,  the  same  limitation,  if  carried 
out,  would  confine  the  greatest  speech  ever  made  to  a  period  of 
four-and-a-half  seconds  ! 

Someone  pointedly  asked  Mr.  Gladstone  whether  he  liked 
Millais'  portraits. 

"  AVell,"  he  replied,  evading  any  brutal  directness  of  reply,  "I 
have  been  very  much  interested  with  his  energy  ;  he  is  the 
hardest-working  man  I  ever  saw." 

"  Do  you  prefer  his  result  to  Holl's  ?  " 

"Ah,  Holl  took  double  the  time,  and  put  me  in  such  a  very 
strained  position,  nearly  on  tiptoe.  1  know  my  heels  were  off 
the  ground  ;  it  tired  me  out,  and  I  was  really  obliged  to  lie 
down  and  sleep  afterwards.'' 

"  You  found  Millais  charming  in  conversation  ?" 

"  He  never  spoke  when  at  work ;  his  interest  in  his  work 
fascinated  me." 

"  ]\lr.  Watts  ?  " 

"  Ah,  there  is  a  delightful  conversationalist,  and  a  wonderful 
artist ;  he  has  attempted  my  portrait  often — three  attempts  of 
late  years — but  he  has  not  satisfied  himself,  and  I  am  bound  to 
say  that  my  friends  are  of  the  same  mind." 

"  I  well  remember,"  remarked  Lord  Granville,  who  was  one  of 
the  party,  "  how  uneasy  poor  Holl  was  before  he  painted  your 
portrait.  He  came  to  me  and  said,  '  I  tliink  if  you  would 
speak  to  Mr.  Gladstone  on  some  subject  that  would  interest  him, 
1  would  watch  him,  and  that  would  aid  me  very  much.' " 

In  this  picture  of  j\lr.  Gladstone  the  late  Frank  Holl  failed  to 
maintain  his  reputati(jn  as  an  artist  of  the  highest  class  :  that 
picture  of  the  gri'at  lilieral  leader  was  disappointing  and 
altogether  unwortliv  of  liis  narae.  This  was  the  more  unfor- 
tunate because,  1>y  the  exercise  of  a  little  forethought,  the  artist 


PARLIAMENTARY  COJFESSIOJS'S.  169 

might  easily  have  avoided  that  pitfall  of  portrait-painters,  an 
awkward,  constrained,  and  unaccustomed  attitude,  which  Mr. 
Gladstone  confessed  was  torturing  him,  and  by  a  very  simple 
expedient  have  succeeded  in  placing  Mr.  Gladstone  in  the 
position  which  everyone  who  has  seen  him  in  the  act  of 
delivering  a  speech  in  the  House  of  Commons  would  have 
recognised  at  once  as  a  true  and  characteristic  pose. 

Here  I  have  mentioned  Mr.  Gladstone  himself,  saying  how 
uncomfortable  he  felt  upon  the  occasion  of  Mr.  Holl's  visit  to 
his  house  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  a  sitting ;  but  I  should 
add  that  the  genial  artist  who  was  to  do  the  work  informed  me 
that  he  also  was  no  less  ill  at  ease.  When 
Mr.  Gladstone  enquired  liow  he  should  sit  for 
the  portrait,  Mr.  Holl,  anxious  no  doubt  to 
secure  a  natural  pose,  replied,  "Oh,  just  as  you 
like!"  This  appeared  to  disconcert  the  great 
statesman  somewhat,  and  he  appeared  to  be 
j'uminating  as  to  what  sedentary  attitude  was 
really  his  favourite  one,  when  Holl  came  to  the 
rescue. 

"I  happened,"  said  Mr.  Gladstone,  "to  be 
standing  at  my  library  table  with  m\'  hands 
upon  a  book,  when  Mr.  Holl  said,  'That  will   caricature  of  the 

^  '  '  HOLL   PORTRAIT. 

do,  Mr.  Gladstone,  exactly,'  and  the  result  was 
that  he  painted  me  in  that  position.     But  I  felt  uncommonly 
awkward  and  uncomfortable  the  whole  time,  and  as  I  have  just 
said,  I  had  to  lie  down  and  sleep  after  each  sitting." 

Now  why  was  this  ?  It  was  the  very  attitude  of  all  others 
with  which  we  who  have  studied  it  so  often  when  the  ex- Premier 
has  been  standing  at  the  table  in  the  House  are  so  familiar. 
No  artist  who  had  once  seen  him  in  that  position  would  have 
failed  to  select  it  as  the  most  favourable  and  characteristic  for 
the  purposes  of  a  historical  portrait.  And  yet  the  picture,  when 
it  was  comj^leted,  was  a  failure,  and  the  artist  himself  knew 
that  it  was.  The  explanation  is,  I  think,  very  simple,  and  it 
exemplifies  once  more  the  truth  of  the  formula  which  defines 
genius   to  be   "an  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains."     Frank 


170  CONFESSIOXS  OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

Holl  undoubtedly  had  talent,  liut  liis  omission  of  an  important 
detail  in  this  picture — a  detail  which  would  have  probably- 
made  all  the  difference  between  success  and  failure — shows 
once  more  by  how  narrow  a  line  the  highest  art  is  often  divided 
from  the  next  best,  that  art  of  which  we  have  such  a  plethora 
nowadays — which  just  contrives  to  miss  hitting  the  bullseye 
of  perfection. 

When  Mr.  Holl  exclaimed,  "That  will  do,  Mr.  Gladstone, 
exactly,"  he  was  no  doubt  impressed  with  the  idea  that  the 
great  orator  was  more  at  ease  standing  at  the  table  in  the 
House  of  Commons  than  in  any  other  position,  and  he  therefore 
selected  it  for  his  picture.  But  he  forgot  that  upon  the  table 
in  the  House  there  stands  a  box  on  which  Mr.  Gladstone  was 
always  in  the  habit,  when  he  was  speaking,  of  resting  one  of 
his  hands,  and  that  if  that  box  was  missing  he  would  naturally, 
although  perhaps  unconsciously,  be  sensible  that  something  to 
which  he  was  accustomed  was  absent,  and  that  he  would 
therefore  be  as  uncomfortable  as  a  fish  out  of  water.  This  was 
actually  the  case.  But  if  some  substitute  for  the  box,  of  the 
proper  height  and  size,  had  been  forthcoming,  I  have  not  the 
slightest  doubt,  from  my  long  and  close  observation  of  the 
habits  and  movements  of  Mr.  Gladstone  in  the  House,  that  he 
would  at  once  have  dropped  easily  into  his  customary  attitude, 
and  that  the  picture  in  the  hands  of  so  true  an  artist  as  Holl 
would  then  have  been  a  conspicuous  success. 

Mr.  Gladstone  was  asked  whether  he  thought  the  tone  of 
the  House  had  degenerated  in  recent  times.  He  replied  that 
he  did  not  think  so  at  all,  quoting  in  proof  that  after  the  intro- 
duction of  the  first  Reform  Bill  many  Members  used  to  express 
their  feelings  in  cock-crpws  and  other  offensive  ways.  Mr. 
Gladstone,  however,  at  the  time  I  met  him,  was  getting 
decidedly  deaf,  and  no  doubt  much  that  went  on  behind  him 
in  the  House  "did  not  reacli  "  him. 

Asked  if  the  ''  count  out  "  ought  to  be  abolished,  Mr. 
Gladstone  said  it  was  too  convenient  a  custom  to  be  abolished, 
but  that  he  noticed  a  very  important  alteration  of  late  years 
in  the  mode  of  conductiiif;   it.      Years  aoo  he  recollected  it  was 


PARLIAMENTARY  CONFESSIONS. 


171 


the  rule  that,  when  a  Member  moved  that "  forty  Members  were 
not  present,  he  was  obliged  to  remain  in  his  place  while  the 
'  count  out '  was  in  progress."  "  Now,"  said  Mr.  Gladstone, 
"  he  gets  up  and  rushes  out. 

*'  Indeed,"  continued  the  veteran  statesman,  "  I  understand 
very  little  about  the  rules  and  regulations  of  the  House  now. 
I  am  very  ignorant 
indeed ;  I  believe  I  am 
the  most  ignorant  man  in 
the  House,  and  I  mean 
to  continue  so;  it  is  not 
worth  my  while  to  begin 
now  to  learn  fresh  rules.'' 

He  told  us  of  a  curious 
incident  which  happened 
in  the  House  when  he 
was  a  young  Parliamen- 
tary hand.  Members 
did  not  leave  the  House 
for  a  division,  but  it  was 
left  to  the  discretion  of 
the  Speaker  to  decide 
which  side  was  in  the 
majority.  He  would 
then  order  them  to  walk 
to  the  other  side  of 
the  House,  and  anyone 
remaining  would  of 
course  be  counted  with 
the  opposite  side.  Old 
Sir  Watkin  Wynn,  I  believe,  was  determined  to  vote  against 
a  certain  Bill.  He  had  been  hunting  all  day,  and  rode  up 
to  town  in  time  to  vote.  Arrivino^  in  his  huntino;  costume 
and  muddy  boots,  he  took  his  seat  tired  out,  and  soon  went 
fast  asleep.  The  division  came  on,  and  his  party  were 
ordered  to  go  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  House.  He  slept 
in  blissful  ignorance,  waking  some  time  afterwards  to  find  to 


NOTE  OF  MR.  GLADSTONE  MADE  IX  THE 
PRESS  GALLERY  WITH  THE  WRONG  END  OF 
A  QUILL  PEN. 


17 J  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

his  horror  that  lie  had  been  counted   with  those  in  favour  of 
the  Bill. 

]\rr.  Gladstone  remarked  that  it  was  curious  that  in  the  old 
days  the  Whips  could  tell  to  a  vote  hoAV  a  division  would  go. 
He  recollected  well,  in  1841,  a  vote  of  no  confidence  in  Lord 
Melhourne  was  moved.  The  point  was  going  to  be  decided  by 
one  vote.  I  shall  never  forget  the  "  Grand  Old  Man's  "  graphic 
description  of  that  vote.  There  was  an  old  Member  who  was 
known  to  l)e  to  all  intents  and  purposes  as  dead  as  a  door-nail. 
The  excitement  was  intense  to  know  if  that  still  breathing 
corpse  could  be  l)rought  to  vote.  Mr.  Gladstone,  with  other 
young  Tory  ]\reml)ers,  stood  anxiously  round  the  lobby  door 
watching,  and  just  at  the  critical  moment  when  the  vote  was 
to  be  taken  the  all  but  lifeless  body  was  borne  along  ignorant 
of  all  that  was  going  around  him,  his  vote  was  recorded,  and 
that  one  vote  sealed  the  fate  of  a  Ministry. 

In  Mr.  Gladstone's  opinion,  American  humour  invariably 
consisted  in  dealing  with  magnitudes.  He  preferred  to  hear 
American  stories  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  He  never  had 
been  in  America,  and  never  intended  going.  He  expressed 
himself  as  apprehensive  of  the  effect  on  the  nervous  system  of 
the  vibration  caused  by  the  engines  of  a  steamer  travelling  at 
a  high  speed,  but  spoke  with  admiration  of  the  rapid  travelling 
at  sea  performed  by  the  Continental  mail  packets,  saying  that 
a  few  days  before,  returning  from  the  Continent,  he  had  only 
just  settled  down  to  read  when  he  was  told  to  disembark,  for 
the  steamer  had  reached  Dover. 

I  overheard  ]\Ir.  Gladstone  asking  the  question  :  "  Why  is  it 
that  when  we  get  a  good  thing  we  do  not  stick  to  it  ? "  I  fully 
expected  him  to  launch  into  some  huge  political  question,  such 
as  the  "  Unity  of  the  Empire "  or  "  Universal  Franchise." 
Instead  of  this,  1  was  somewhat  surprised  to  hear  him  proceed  : 
"Now,  I  recollect  an  excruciatingly  funny  toy  which  you  wound 
lip,  and  it  danced  about  in  a  most  comical  way.  I  have  watched 
that  little  nigger  many  and  many  a  time,  but  lately  I  have  been 
looking  everywhere  to  get  one,  I  have  asked  at  the  sho2')s  in 
the  Strand  and  elsewhere,  and  thev  show  me  other  things,  but 


PARLIAMENTARY  CONFESSIONS.  173 

not  the  funny  nigger  I  recollect,  so  I  have  given  up  my  search 
in  despair." 

I  noticed  that  Mr.  Gladstone  took  champagne  at  dinner,  and 
after  dinner  a  glass  of  port.  Some  conversation  arising  with 
reference  to  the  history  of  wines,  the  old  politician  seemed  to 
know  more  on  the  subject  than  anyone  else  at  table  ;  in  ftict, 
during  the  whole  evening,  there  was  not  a  subject  touched  upon 
on  which  he  did  not  give  the  heads  for  an  interesting  essay. 
The  only  time  Mr.  Gladstone  mentioned  Ireland  was  in  con- 
nection wdth  the  subject  of  wines,  when  he  dilated  upon  the 
beauties  of  Newfoundland  port,  which  was  to  be  found  iu 
Ireland  in  the  good  old  days. 

In  one  respect  Mr.  Gladstone  was  not  an  exception  among 
the    old,    for    he    seemed 
fond  of  dwelling  upon  the         isTgw^^Ay    ap^i ■- _ x^e b 

great  age  which  men  have     ^^/{/f^^f-gF^U^ 
attained.       He  seemed  to 
thin  k  that  the  high  pressure       Y^'^'^s^  tt^c-^u/ijuHii 
at  which  we  live  nowadays  '^'*'*  ^'^^y  of 

would  show   its  effect  on  i-    C^      /     C^ 

the  longevity  of  the  rising  c^       '^'T^on^e.e'^ 

generation,  and  remarked  :         c  a         «-^  '^/\^?ff 

You  youno;   men  will  ^      ^~ 

have  a  very  bad  time  of  it." 

It  is  curious  that  very  few  statesmen  indeed  have  led  the 
House  of  Commons  in  their  old  age.  It  may  be  said  that  Lord 
John  Russell  was  the  first  to  do  so ;  Lord  Palmerston  also  was 
very  old  befoi'e  he  obtained  office.  And  so  chatted  the  Grand  Old 
Man,  in  the  most  fascinating  and  delightful  manner.  He  was 
always  the  same  on  such  occasions,  entering  into  the  spirit  of 
the  entertainment,  and,  as  was  his  habit,  forgetting  for  the 
time  everything  else.  When  my  old  friend  William  Wood  all, 
M.P.  for  Stoke  (Governor-General  of  the  Ordnance  in  Mr. 
Gladstone's  Government  1885),  gave  at  St.  Anne's  Mansions  his 
AimoLis  "  Sandwich  Soirees "  to  his  friends,  the  spacious  ball- 
room on  the  ground  floor  packed  with  his  many  friends  —a  charac- 
teristic, polyglot   gathering   of  Ministers  and  Parliamentarians 


174 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


of  all  kinds,  musicians,  dramatists,  authors,  artists,  actors, 
and  journalists,  who  sang,  recited,  and  gave  a  gratuitous 
entertainment  (for  some  of  these  I  acted  as  his  hon.  secretary, 
and  helped  to  get  together  a  collection  of  modern  paintings  on 
the  Avails,  besides  designing  the  invitations) — I  recollect  the 
greatest  success  was  the  Grand  Old  Man.  There  was  "  standing 
room  "  only,  but  a  chair  was  provided  for  Mr.  Gladstone  in  the 
centre  of  the  huge  circle  which  had  formed  around  the 
mesmerist  Yerbeck.  Many  guests  sat  on  the  floor,  to  aff'ord 
those  behind  a  better  chance  of  seeing.     The  Prime  Minister, 

noticing  this,  absolutely 
declined  to  be  an  ex- 
ception, and  he  squatted 
"a  la  Turk"  on  the 
floor.  I  confess  this 
struck  me  as  "  playing 
to  the  gallery."  It  cer- 
tainly was  playing  to 
the  Press,  for  Mr.  Glad- 
stone's attitude  on  that 
occasion  was  para- 
graphed all  over  the 
country,  by  means  of 
which  fact  I  have  here 
refreshed  my  memory.  In  fact,  Mr.  Gladstone  was  always  en 
evidence.  When  the  great  statesman  dined  with  Toby,  M.P.,  I  was 
sitting  close  to  him.  He  had  dispensed  with  his  own  shirt-collars, 
and  wore  quite  the  smallest,  slenderest,  and  most  inconspicuous 
of  narrow,  turn-down  collars,  assumed  for  that  occasion  only. 
"  One  of  Herbert's  cast-offs,"  someone  whispered  to  me. 
"  That's  strange,"  said  another  guest  to  me.  "  Last  night  at 
dinner  the  pin  in  the  back  of  Gladstone's  collar  came  out,  and 
as  he  got  excited,  the  collar  rose  round  his  head,  and  we  all 
agreed  that  '  Furniss  ought  to  have  witnessed  what  he  has  so 
often  drawn,  but  never  seen,'  " 

Mr.   Lucy  has  made  the  statement  that  ]Mr.  Gladstone  was 
"a  constant  student  of  Punch,''  and  "knew  no  occasion  upon 


MR.    GLADSTONE   SITS   ON   THE   FLOOR. 


PA  RLIA  ME  FT  A  R  Y   COXFESSIOFS. 


175 


which  he  was  not  able  to  join  in  the  general  merriment  of  the 
public ;  but  hadn't  there  been  enough  about  the  fabulous 
collars  ?  " 

I  received  an  editorial  order  to  bury  them,  "  but  before  long 
they  were  out  again,  flapping  their  folds  in  the  political 
breeze." 

Well,  I  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Gladstone  for  many  years 
was   "  a  constant  student  of  Punch,''  for  during  the  greater 


LONDON  CHARIVAKl— Mat  11, 


^ 

m^ 

1 

M 

"V^^^x  ^^^ 

B^ 

^3 

^ 

205  and  204.  Mrt.  0.  {homjied).  "0  Profossor 
neHMma*,  0  Ur.  Val  Prinsep,  bow  could  ^ou  bavs 
illoved  me  to  be  placed  next  to  sucb  k  very  improper 


late  Lord  Beacons&eld.    "WarrentcS. 


-Oh!" 

fk 

w 

^Ulil^ 

m^^ 

^ 

fe 

IP 

m^^^k 

^^ 

^^ 

^^ 

M^^^^jP 

^p'fiS 

w9| 

1" 

jjsW 

uJV^'-I^iS 

^^^^ 

^S 

Pip 

'  The  Nakedness  of  the  Land."  — Collected  Works  of  ranous  Lim-ner*  waitmg  for  the  Coatumier. 


THE    FRAGMENT   OF   PUNCH  MR.   GLADSTONE   DID  NOT  SEE. 


portion  of  his  political  career  he  was  idealised  in  the  pages  of 
Punch,  and  not  caricatured.  I  doubt  very  much,  however,  if 
he  made  Punch  an  exception  in  his  latter  period,  for  it  is  well 
known  that  for  years  he  was  only  allowed  to  see  flattering 
notices  of  himself,  and  all  references  at  all  likely  to  disturb  him 
were  kept  from  his  sight.  At  Mr.  Lucy's  own  house,  the  night 
Mr.  Gladstone  dined  with  him,  a  copy  of  Pimcli  was  lying  on 
the  table,  containing  a  rare  tliiug  for  Punch— a  supplement. 
In  this  case  it  took  the  shape  of  my  caricatures  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  1889.     Just  as  dinner  was  announced  Mr.  Gladstone 


17C)  CONFESSIOXS   OF  A    CAIUCATURIST. 

saw  the  paper,  and  was  on  the  point  of  taking  it  up.  I 
lianded  it  to  him,  but  at  the  same  moment  slipped  the  supple- 
ment out  of  the  number  and  threw  it  under  the  table,  for  it 
contained  a  caricature  of  Professor  Herkomer's  Academy  portrait 
of  Mrs.  Gladstone,  objecting  to  being  placed  next  to  a  lady 
by  Mr.  \-a\  Prinsep  sitting  for  the  "altogether."  During 
dinner  Mr.  Gladstone  mentioned  this  portrait  of  Mrs.  Glad- 
stone, and  expressed  great  delight  with  Herkomer's  work :  it 
showed  her  mature  age,  he  said,  and  as  a  portrait  was  very 
ha})py  and  true — he  did  not  say  anything  about  the  hanging  of  it! 
^Ir.  Gladstone  was  the  life  and  soul  of  a  party,  and  seemed 
to  enjoy  being  the  centre  of  attraction 
wherever  he  was. 

jNIr.  Gladstone's  portrait  has  been 
adopted  by  others  besides  caricaturists. 
It  is  carved  as  a  gargoyle  in  the  stone- 
work of  a  church,  and  the  head  of  the 
Grand  Old  Man  has  been  turned  into  a 
match-box.  The  latter  I  here  reproduce. 
It  was  shown  to  me  one  evening  when  I 
was  the  guest  at  the  Guard  Mess  at  St. 

THE    GLADSTOXE     MATCH-  ,  ,     ~n    ^  a       i  ■  /^  i 

jjox.  James  s  Palace.    A  clever  young  Guards- 

man, who  had  a  taste  for  turning, 
worked  this  out  in  wood  from  my  caricatures  of  Mr.  Gladstone, 
and  I  advised  his  having  it  reproduced  in  pottery.  The 
suo;2:estion  was  carried  out  bv  the  late  Mr.  AV  oodall,  the 
Member  for  the  Potteries,  and  was  largely  distributed  at  the 
time  the  G.O.M.  was  politically  meeting  his  match  and  thought 
l)y  some  to  be  a  little  light-headed. 

In  being  shown  round  the  beautiful  municipal  buildings  in 
Glasgow  I  found  my  caricature  there  accidentally  figuring  in  the 
marble-work  ;  and  the  guides  at  Antw^erp  Cathedral  (as  I  have 
mentioned  in  the  first  chapter)  point  out  a  grotesque  figure  in 
the  wood  carving  of  the  choir  stalls  which  resembles  almost 
exactly  ^Ir.  (Gladstone's   Jiead  as  depicted  by  me. 

I  find  a  note  which  1  introduce  here,  as  I  hardly  know  where 
t<»  ])l;ic('  it  in   tliis  h()tch-})utch  of  confessions.      Is  it  a  fact  that 


PARLIAMENTARY  CONFESSIONS.  Ill 

Mr.  Gladstone  once  signed  a  caricature  of  himself?  In  1896  a 
Mr.  J.  T.  Cox,  of  the  "Norwich  school"  of  amateurs,  procured 
a  slab  of  a  sycamore  tree  felled  by  Mr.  Gladstone,  and  on  it 
reproduced  in  pencil  my  Punch  cartoon  depicting  a  visit  of  the 
"Grand  Old  Undergrad "  to  his  Alma  Mater,  Oxford.  This 
was  sent  to  Hawarden,  and  returned  sio-ned  with  the  followino; 
note  : 

"  Hawarden  Castle. 

"  Mr.  Gladstone  is  obliged  to  refuse  his  signature,  but  Mrs.  Drew 
asked  him  for  it  for  herself  on  enclosed — it  was  so  cleverly  arranged. 

''May  5th,  1896." 

Here  is  to  me,  I  confess,  a  first-he-would-and-then-he- 
wouldn't,  Cox  and  Box  mystery  I  fail  to  explain. 

I  drew  the  G.O.M.,  Mr.  Cox  drew  me,  he  drew  Mrs.  Drew, 
and  Mrs.  Drew  drew  Mr.  Gladstone.  Mr.  Gladstone  refused  his 
signature,  and  yet  he  signed  it.  I  think  he  sigaed  his  cut  of 
sycamore,  and  not  my  cut  at  him. 

Both  as  a  "special  artist"  for  the  Illustrated  London  News 
in  my  ipve-Punch  days,  and  later  for  various  periodicals,  I  saw 
and  sketched  Mr.  Gladstone  on  many  important  occasions,  but 
towards  the  end  of  his  career  it  was  sad  to  see  the  great  man. 
The  Daily  News  once  gave  me  a  chance  in  the  following  account 
of  Mr.  Gladstone  during  one  of  these  scenes,  when  J\Ir.  Gladstone, 
having  accidentally  mentioned  the  approach  of  his  eightieth 
birthday, "  the  vast  audience  suddenly  leapt  to  its  feet  and  burst 
into  ringing  cheers.  Mr.  Gladstone  was  evidently  deeply  touched 
by  this  spontaneous  outburst  of  almost  personal  affection.  He 
stood  with  hands  folded,  head  bent  down,  and  legs  quivering" 
The  fun  of  this  joke,  however,  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  "legs" 
which  quivered  were  the  telegraph  operators'.  The  reporter 
wrote  "lips." 

So  great  was  the  public  admiration  for  the  illustrious  leader 
of  the  Liberal  Party  that  merely  to  see  him  was,  to  the  majority 
of  his  audience,  enough.  In  later  years  he  could  not  be  heard 
at  public  meetings.  Penetrating  as  his  voice  was,  it  was  abso- 
lutely impossible  for  any  but  those  standing  immediately  around 

C. — VOL.  I.  ■  N 


178  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

the  plntform  to  hear  him  u[)oii  such  occasions  as  that  of  the 
famous  Jilackheath  meetino;  or  those  at  Birmino-ham  or  else- 
where;  but  the  masses  nevertheless  came  in  their  thousands,  and 
were  more  than  repaid  for  their  trouble  by  catching  only  a 
distant  glimpse  of  William  Ewart  Gladstone. 

Whatever  one  may  think  of  Mr.  Gladstone  as  a  politician 
(and  some  say  that  he  was  no  statesman,  and  others  that  he 
was  never  sincere,  while  many  maintain  that  he  was  merely  a 
"  dangerous  old  woman  "),  all  must  agree  that  as  a  man  he  was 
a  figure  that  England  might  well  be  proud  of.  It  will  be 
interestino-  to  see  what  historians  will  make  of  liim.     When  the 

O 

glamour  of  his  personality  is  forgotten,   what  will  be  remem- 
bered I      His  figure,  his  face — and  shall  I  say  his  collars  ? 
In  my  time  j\Tr.  Parnell  was  the  most  interesting  figure  in 

Parliament,  and, 
after  Mr.  Gladstone, 
liad  the  greatest 
influence  in  the 
House.  Mr.  Glad- 
stone was,  politically 
speaking.  Parlia- 
ment itself  (at  one  time  he  was  the  Country) ;  but  I  doubt  if 
even  Mr.  Gladstone  ever  hypnotised  the  House  by  his  personality 
as  Parnell  did.  There  was  a  mystery  in  everything  connected 
with  the  great  Irish  leader  ;  no  mystery  hung  about  Mr.  Glad- 
stone. Mr.  Gladstone  in  the  House  was  voluble,  eloquent, 
communicative.  Mr.  Parnell  was  silent,  a  poor  speaker,  and  as 
uncommunicative  as  the  Sphinx.  Mr.  Gladstone's  power  lay  in 
his  unreservedness ;  Mr.  Parnell's  lay  in  his  absolute  reserve. 
His  orders  were  "  No  one  to  speak  to  the  man  at  the  wheel," 
and  the  man  at  the  wheel  spoke  to  no  one.  He  guided  the  Irish 
ship  just  as  he  liked  over  the  troubled  waters  of  a  political 
crisis,  and  not  one  of  his  men  knew  what  move  would  be  his 
next.  By  this  means,  so  foreign  to  the  Irish  character,  he  held 
that  excitable,  rebellious,  irrepressible  crew  in  thrall.  He  made 
tlieni  (lance,  sleep,  roar ;  he  made  them  obstructionists,  orators, 
buffoons,  at   his  will.      lie  made  them  evervthinij  Ijut  friends. 


PARLIAMENTARY  CONFESSIONS. 


179 


A  characteristic  story  was  circulated  when  Parnell  was  known 
as  "the  uncrowned  king."  Accorapanied  by  his  faithful  private 
secretary,  he  was  walking  from  the  House,  when  he  met  one  of 
his  colleagues.  The  satellite  saluted  his  chief  and  "  smiled 
affably  at  the  private  secretary."     Mr.  Parnell  took  no  notice 

whatever  of  Mr. ,  but  after  a  few  seconds   had    elapsed, 

turned  to  his  companion  and  said,  "  Who  was  that,  Campbell  ? " 

"  Why,   "    (mentioning  the  name  of 

the  hon.  Member),  was  the  reply. 

"What  a  horrible- looking  scoundrel!" 
exclaimed  the  uncrowned  king  in  his  most 
supercilious  manner,  and  then  began  to  talk 
of  something  else. 

He  was  a  study  as  fascinating  to  the  artist 
as  to  the  politician,  and  no  portrait  ever 
drawn  by  pen  or  pencil  can  hand  down  to 
future  generations  the  mysterious  subtlety  in 
the  personality  of  the   all-powerful  leader. 

He  was  as  puzzling  to  the  Parliamentary 
ai'tist  as  he  was  to  the  politician :  he  never 
appeared  just  as  one  expected  him.  When  I 
first  made  a  sketch  of  him  he  had  short 
hair,  a  well-trimmed  moustache,  shortly-cut 
side  whiskers,  a  neat-fitting  coat  and  trousers, 
and  well-sliaj)ed  boots.  He  then  let  his  beard 
and  hair  grow,  and  his  coat  and  trousers  seemed  to  grow  also — 
the  coat  in  length  and  the  ti'ousers  in  width ;  and  his  boots  grew 
with  the  rest — they  were  ugly  and  enormous.  His  hat  didn't 
grow,  but  it  was  out  of  date.  Then  he  would  cut  his  beard  and 
hair  again,  wear  a  short  coat,  a  sort  of  pilot  jacket,  and  eventually 
a  long  black  coat.  So  that  if  a  drawing  was  not  published  at 
once  it  would  have  been  out  of  date. 

Some  artists  have  been  flattering  enough  to  take  my  sketches 
as  references  for  Parliamentarians,  but  others  depended  on 
photographs,  and  for  years  I  have  seen  Mr.  Parnell  represented 
wdth  the  neatly-trimmed  moustache  and  closely-cut  side  whiskers. 
A  i^ropoH  of  this,  I  may  mention  here  how  mistakes  often  become 

N  2 


PARNELL. 


180  COXFESSIONS  OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

perpetuated.  John  Bright,  for  instance,  Av^as  generally  repre- 
sented in  political  sketches  with  an  eyeglass.  This  was  a 
slip  made  by  an  artist  in  Punch  many  years  ago.  But  ever 
after  John  Bright  was  represented  with  an  eyeglass — which 
lie  never  wore,  except  on  one  occasion  just  to  see  how  he 
liked  it. 

The  effect  upon  the  House  when  Mr.  Parnell  rose  was  always 
dramatic.  He  sat  there  during  a  debate,  seldom,  if  ever,  taking 
a  note,  with  his  hat  well  over  his  eyes  and  his  arms  crossed, 
in  stronfj  contrast  to  the  restlessness  of  those  around  him.  When 
he  rose,  it  seemed  an  effort  to  lift  his  voice,  and  he  spoke  in  a 
hesitatinsf,  ineffective  manner.  Neither  was  there  much  in  what 
he  said,  but  he  was  Parnell,  and  the  fact  that  he  said  little  and 
said  it  quietly,  that  what  he  said  was  not  prepared  in  consulta- 
tion with  his  Whips  or  with  his  Party,  that  in  fact  he  was  playing 
a  game  in  which  his  closest  friends  were  not  consulted,  made  his 
rising  interesting  from  the  reporters'  gallery  to  the  doorkeepers 
in  the  Lobby  the  other  side. 

Mr.  Parnell  seemed  to  have  been  very  little  affected  by  his 
continued  reverses ;  and  perhaps  the  only  visible  effect  of  his  loss 
of  power  was  that  the  "  uncrowned  king  "  of  Ireland  changed 
his  top-hat  to  a  plebeian  bowler,  but  he  did  not  change  his  coat. 
He  was  always  careless  about  his  dress,  and  his  tall,  handsome 
figure  looked  somewhat  ridiculous  when  he  wore  a  bowler,  black 
frock  coat,  and  his  hair  as  usual  unkempt. 

The  fill  of  Parnell  was  one  of  the  most  sensational  and 
certainly  the  most  dramatic  incident  in  the  history  of 
Parliament. 

Mr.  Parnell  was  politically  ruined  and  the  Irish  Party  smashed 
beyond  recovery  in  the  famous  Committee  Room  No.  15,  after 
the  disclosures  in  the  Divorce  Court  in  which  Mr.  Parnell 
figured  as  co-respondent.  Mr.  Parnell  had  found  the  Irish  Party 
without  a  leader,  without  a  programme,  without  a  future.  He 
had  by  his  individual  force  made  it  a  power  which  had  to  be 
reckoned  with,  and  which  practically  controlled  Parliament.  He 
had  l)een  attacked  by  the  most  important  pnper  in  the  world. 
He  had  come  out  of  the  affair,  in  the  eyes  of  many,  a  hero  ;  he 


PARLIAMENTARY   CONFESSIONS.  181 

made  his  Party  stronger  than  their  wildest  dreams  ever 
anticipated.  But  his  followers  little  thought  that  in  hiding  from 
them  his  tactics  he  had  also  hidden  the  weakness  which  caused  his 
ultimate  downfall.  Howbeit  the  Irish  Party,  whom  he  held  in 
a  hypnotic  trance,  agreed  to  stand  by  him  still.  Then,  suddenly, 
Mr.  Gladstone  made  his  demand  for  a  sacrifice  to  Mrs.  Grundy. 
His  famous  letter,  written  November  24th,  1894,  to  Mr.  Morley, 
was  the  death-warrant  to  Parnellism,  and,  as  it  subsequently 
proved,  to  Gladstonianism  as  well. 

There  was  a  strange  fascination  in  watching  the  mysterious 
Leader  of  the  Irish  Party  during  the  crisis,  and  I  took  full 
advantage  of  my  privilege  in  the  House  to  do  so.  I  was  in  and 
about  the  House  early  and  late,  and  prol)ably  saw  more  of  Mr. 
Parnell  than  anyone  else  not  connected  with  him.  It  was  just 
before  his  exposure  that  I  happened  to  be  in  an  out-of-the-way 
passage  leading  from  the  House,  making  a  little  note  in  my 
sketch-book  on  a  corner  of  the  building,  when  Mr.  Parnell 
walked  out.  He  stood  close  by,  not  observing  me,  and  was 
occupied  for  a  minute  in  taking  letters  out  of  the  pocket  on  the 
right  side  of  his  overcoat :  they  were  unopened.  He  looked  at 
them  singly  ;  now  and  then  he  would  tap  one  on  the  other,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  I  wonder  what  is  in  that  % "  Then  he  jDassed 
it  over  with  the  others  and  put  them  all  into  the  pocket  on  the 
left  side  of  his  overcoat,  and  strolled  off  to  catch  his  train  to 
Brighton.  That  incident,  as  I  subsequently  found  out,  was  the 
cause  of  much  of  his  trouble  ;  for  I  was  informed,  when  I 
mentioned  it  to  a  great  friend  of  Mr.  Parnell' s  and  of  mine — 
Mr.  Eichard  Power — that  about  that  time  he  had  written  him 
important  letters  which  might  have  saved  him  if  they  had  been 
attended  to  in  time. 

But  those  who  saw  the  fallen  chief  durino;  the  sittinsjs  in 
Committee  Room  No.  15,  wlien,  through  the  letter  of  Mr. 
Gladstone  to  which  I  have  referred,  he  was  denounced,  and  had 
to  fight  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  can  never  forget  his  tragic 
figure  during  that  exciting  time.  No  one  knew  better  than  he 
that  the  tactics  of  his  lieutenant  would  be  cunning  and  perhaps 
treaclierous  ;  so  this  lazy,  self-composed  man  suddenl}^  awoke  as 


182 


COXFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST, 


a  general  who  finds  himself  surprised  in  the  camp,  and  determines 
to  keep  watch  himself.  Every  day  he  took  by  right  the  chair 
at  the  meetings.  Had  he  not  been  present,  who  knows  that  it 
would  not  have  been  wrested  from  him  ?  In  the  early  afternoon 
I  saw  him  more  than  once  walk  with  a  firm  step,  with  an  ashy 
pale  face,  his  eyes  fixed  straight  in  front  of  him,  through  the 
yard,  through  the  Lobby,  up  the  stairs,  and  into  Room  15, 
accompanied  by  his  secretary,  Mr.  Campbell.  The  members  of 
his  Party,  on  their  arrival,  found  him  sitting  where  they  had  left 
him  the  night  before.  I  recollect  one  morning,  as  he  passed 
where  I  was  standing,  he  never  moved  his  head,  but  I  heard 
him  say  to  Mr.  Campbell,  "  Who's  that  ?  what  does  he  want?  " 

in  a  sharp,  nervous  manner.  He 
never  seemed  to  recognise  anyone, 
or  wish  them  to  recognise  him.  His 
one  idea  was  to  face  the  man  who 
wished  to  fio^lit  him  in  the  little  rinof 
they  had  selected  in  the  Committee 
Room  No.  15. 

No  outsider  but  myself  heard  any 
portion  of  that  debate,  for  at  the 
beginning  of  it  the  reporters,  who 
were  standing  round  the  doors  out- 
side to  hear  what  they  could,  were 
ordered  away ;  and  I  was  left  there, 
not  being  a  reporter,  to  finish  a  rather  tedious  sketch  of  the 
corridor.  A  policeman  was  placed  at  either  end  of  this  very 
long  passage,  and  if  anyone  had  to  pass  that  way  he  was 
not  allowed  to  pause  for  a  moment  at  the  door  of  the  room 
upon  wdiich  the  interest  of  the  political  world  was  centred  at 
the  moment.  Nearly  all  the  time  I  was  there  I  only  saw  the 
jDoliceman  at  either  end,  and  one  solitary  figure  seated  on  the 
bench  outside  the  door.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  woman  with 
a  kind,  homely -looking  face,  resting  with  her  head  upon 
her  hand.  She  seemed  not  to  be  aware  of,  or  at  least  not 
interested  in  what  was  going  on  inside  ;  she  simply  sighed  as 
Bio-  Ben  tolled  on   toward  the    hour  for  the   dismissal  of  the 


TO  ROOM  1.5. 


PARLIAMENTARY   CONFESSIONS. 


183 


f<:' 


Leader  of  tlie  Irish  Party.  She  was  the  wife  of  a  blind  Member 
of  Parliament  who  was  taking  part  in  the  proceedings,  and  her 
thoughts  were  evidently  more  intent  upon  seeing  that  her  husband 
was  not  worn  out  by  that  strange,  long  struggle  than  in  the 
political  significance  of  the  meeting. 

It  was  my  good  fortune  to  hear  what  was  perhaps  the  most 
interesting  of  the  speeches — John  Redmond's  defence  of  his 
chief — and  I  never  wish  to  listen  to  a  finer  oration.  Everyone 
admits  that  the  Irish  are,  by  nature,  good  speakers,  but  they  are 
not  always  sincere.  Here  was  a 
combat  in  which  there  was  no  quarter, 
no  gallery,  and  no  reporters.  The 
men  spoke  from  their  hearts,  and  if 
any  orator  could  have  moved  an 
assembly  by  his  power  and  genius, 
Mr.  Redmond  ought  to  have  had  a 
unanimous  vote  recorded  in  favour 
of  his  chief.  I  am  not  a  phonograph, 
nor  was  I  a  journalist  privileged  to 
record  what  passed,  and  I  have  no 
intention  of  breaking  their  trust. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  scene 
one  AVednesday  afternoon  when  Mr. 
Maurice  Healy,  brother  of  "  Tim," 
and  one  of  the  Members  for  Cork, 
challenged  Mr.  Parnell  to  retire  and  so 
enable  their  respective  claims  to  the  confidence  of  the  people  of 
Cork  to  be  tested.  He  tried  to  drag  Mr.  Parnell  into  a  newspaper 
controversy  upon  this  point,  but  failing  to  do  so  repeated  in  tragic 
tones  his  somewhat  Hibernian  sentiment  that  Mr.  Parnell  did 
not  represent  the  constituency  which  elected  him.  Mr.  Maurice 
Healy,  a  somewhat  sickly-looking  young  man,  with  a  family 
resemblance  to  his  brother,  is  much  taller  than  his  more  famous 
relative,  but  lacks  the  stamina  and  vivacity  of  the  Member  for 
Lon  Oxford. 

At  this  moment,  when  the  Irish  Party  might  have  been  likened 
to  machinery  deprived  of  its  principal  wheel,  it  was  curious  to 


OUTSIDE  llOOM   15. 


184  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

notice  how  energetic  Mr.  Parncll  became.  He  tried  to  cover 
his  position  by  being  unusually  active  in  Parliament ;  he  followed 
^he  Chief  Secretary  for  Ireland  in  the  debates  upon  the  Land 
Purchase  Bill,  to  the  obvious  discomfort  of  Mr,  Morley,  and  rather 
delighted  the  young  Conservatives  by  twitting  the  faction  which 
had  thrown  him  over.  His  speeches,  however,  were  laboured, 
and,  as  one  of  the  Irish  Members  remarked  to  me  in  the  Lobby, 
it  had  a  curious  effect  oa  them  to  see  Mr.  Parnell  sit  down  after 
making  an  important  speech  without  hearing  a  single  cheer. 
And  whereas  for  years  he  had  addressed  the  House  with  the 
greatest  calmness,  his  chief  characteristic  lieing  his  "  reserve 
force,"  he  now  changed  all  this,  and  one  Friday  night  caused 
quite  a  sensation  in  the  House  in  his  attack  upon  Mr.  Gladstone, 
not  so  much  by  what  he  said  as  by  the  manner  in  which  he  said 
it.  His  excitement  was  visible  to  all,  and  he  was  observed  to 
be  positively  convulsed  with  anger.  He  also  remained,  contrary 
to  his  previous  custom,  late  in  the  House. 

The  last  occasion  on  which  I  saw  Charles  Stewart  Parnell  was 
a  few  months  before  his  death.  I  was  in  Dublin  during  the 
Horse  Show  week,  giving  my  "  Humours  of  Parliament "  to 
crowded  houses  in  the  "  Ancient  Concert  Koqms,"  and  my 
ancient  hotel  rooms  were  at  Morrison's  Hotel — "  Parn ell's 
Hotel,"  for  the  "uncrowned  king"  (at  that  time  deposed)  always 
stopped  there — in  fact  it  was  said  he  had  an  interest  in  the 
property.  It  was  late  on  Sunday  afternoon.  I  was  writing  in 
my  sitting-room  on  the  first  floor,  next  to  Parnell's  room,  when 
the  strains  of  national  music  of  approaching  bands  smote  my  ear, 
and  soon  the  hotel  was  surrounded  by  a  cheering,  shouting 
crowd.  Banners  were  flying,  bands  were  playing,  thousands  of 
voices  were  shoiitinf]^.  Standing^  in  a  brake  harano-uino;  the  surging 
mass  of  people  was  the  familiar  figure  of  Charles  Stewart  Parnell. 
AVith  difficulty  he  descended  frpm  the  brake,  and  had  literally 
to  fight  his  M^ay  into  the  hotel,  while  his  worshippers  clung  on 
to  him  into  the  building,  till  they  were  seized  and  ejected  by 
the  servants.  I  went  out  of  my  door  to  see  the  scene,  and  in  the 
passage  outside,  between  Parnell's  sitting-room  and  mine,  he  sat 
ap]_)arently  exliausted.      His  flesh  seemed  transparent — I  could 


FA RLIAMENTAR  Y  CONFESSIONS. 


185 


OUTSIDE   MY   ROOM. 


fancy  I  saw  the  pattern  of  the  wall-paper  tlirough  his  pallid  cheeks. 

The  next  moment,  before  I  was  aware,  another  figure  sat  on  the 

same  seat,  arms  were 

thrown      round      my 

neck.       It    was    my 

old  Irish  nurse,  who 

had    come    up    from 

Wexford  to    see   me, 

and  had   been    Ivino; 

in  wait  for  me. 

The  first  picture  I 
drew  for  Punches 
essence  of  Parliament 

was  a  portrait  of  Lord  Randolph  Churchill,  "  Caught  on  the 
Hip,"  to  illustrate  the  following  truly  prophetic  w^ords  of 
Toby,  M.P.  :  "The  new  delight  you  have  given  us  is  the 
spectacle  of  an  undisciplined  Tory — a  man  who  will  not  march 
at  the  word  of  command  and  snaps  his  fingers  at  his  captain. 
You  won't  last  long,  Randolph  ;  you  are  rather  funny  than  witty 

— more  impudent  than 
important."  That  was 
written  at  tlie  opening 
of  Parliament,  1891. 

I  must  plead  guilty  to 
being  the  cause  of  giving 
an  erroneous  impression 
of  Lord  Randolph's 
heiMit.  He  was  not  a 
small  man,  but  he  looked 
small;  and  w^hen  he  first 
came  into  notoriety,  with 
a  small  following,  was  considered  of  small  importance  and, 
by  some,  small-minded.  It  was  to  show  this  political  insignifi- 
cance in  humorous  contrast  to  his  bombastic  audacity  that  I 
represented  him  as  a  midget ;  but  the  idea  was  also  suggested 
from  time  to  time  by  his  opponents  in  debate.  Did  not 
Mr.  Gladstone  once  call  him  a  gnat  ?  and  do  we  not  find  the 


"  THfe   G.O.M."   AND    "  RANDY." 


186 


CONFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


following  lines  iindei'  Punch's  Fancy  Portraits,  No.  47,  drawn  by 

Mr.  Sambourne  ? 

"  There  is  a  Midge  at  Westminster, 
A  Gnatty  little  Thing, 
It  bites  at  Night 
This  mighty  Mite, 
But  no  one  feels  its  sting." 

Two  gentlemen  of  Yorkshire  had  a  dispute  about  his  correct 
height,  and  one  of  them,  anxious  to  have  an  authoritative 
pronouncement,  wrote  to  the  noble  Lord,  and  received  the  following 
reply  : 

"2,  Conn  AUGHT  Place,  "W. 
"Dear  Sir, —  Lord  Eandolph  Churchill  desires  me  to  say,  in  reply  to 
your  letter  of  the  21st  inst.,  that  his  height  is  just  under  5ft.  lOin. 
"  I  am,  yours  faithfully, 

"  Cecil  Drummond- Wolff,  Secretary." 


Lord  Randolph  Churchill  was  a  mere  creature  of  impulse,  the 
spoilt  pet  of  Parliament — what  you  will — but  no  one  can  deny 
that  he  was  the  most  interestino;  fissure  in 
the  House  since  Disraeli.  .  He  had  none 
of  Disraeli's  chief  attraction  —  namely, 
mystery.  Nor  had  he  Disraeli's  power  of 
organisation,  for,  although  Lord  Randolph 
"  educated  a  party  "  of  three — the  first  step 
to  his  eventually  becoming  Leader  of  the 
House — it  cannot  be  said  that  at  any  time 
afterwards  he  really  had,  in  the  strict  sense 
of  the  word,  a  party  at  all.  He  was  a 
political  Don  Quixote,  and  he  had  his 
Sancho  Panza  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Louis 
Jennings.  Perhaps  nothing  can  show  the 
impulsive  nature  of  Lord  Randolph  more 
than  the  incident  which  was  the  cause  of 
^Ir.  Jeiniings  breaking  with  Lord  Randolph. 
Mr.  Louis  Jennings  was,  in  many  ways,  his  chief's  superior:  a 
brilliant  journalist,  originally  on  the  Times,  afterwards  editor  of 


ME.    LOUIS   .TENXIXGS. 


PARLIAMENTARY   CONFESSIONS.  187 

the  Netv  York  World,  when,  by  dint  of  his  energy  and  pluck, 
he  was  the  chief  cause  of  breaking  up  the  notorious  Tammany 
King;  a  charming  writer  of  picturesque  country  scenes — in  fact, 
an  accomplished  man,  and  one  harshly  treated  by  that  fickle 
dame  Fortune  by  being  branded,  rightly  or  wrongly,  as  the  mere 
creature  of  a  political  adventurer. 

One  afternoon  I  was  standing  in  the  Inner  Lobby  when  Mr. 
Jennings  asked  me  to  go  into  the  House  to  a  seat  under  the 
Gallery  to  hear  him  deliver  a  speech  he  had  been  requested  to 
make  by  the  Government  Party,  and  one  he  thought  something 
of.  At  that  moment  Lord  Eandolph  came  up  and  said, 
**I  am  going  in  to  hear  you,  Jennings;  I  have  arranged  not 
to  speak  till  after  dinner."  And  we  all  three  entered  the 
House. 

Lord  Randolph,  who  had  then  left  the  Ministry,  sat  on  the 
bench  in  the  second  row  below  the  gangway,  on  the  Government 
side  of  the  House.  Mr.  Jennings  was  seated  on  the  bench 
behind,  close  to  where  he  had  found  a  place  for  me  under 
the  Gallery.  He  carefully  arranged,  the  notes  for  his  speech,  and 
directly  the  Member  who  had  been  addressing  the  House  sat 
down,  Mr.  Jennings  jumped  to  his  feet  to  "  catch  the  Speaker's 
eye."  But  Lord  Randolph,  who  had  been  very  restless  all 
through  the  speech  just  delivered,  sprang  to  his  feet.  Jennings 
leant  over  to  him  and  said  something,  but  Churchill  waved  him 
impatiently  away,  and  the  Speaker  called  upon  Lord  Randolph. 
Jennings  sank  back  with  a  look  of  disgust  and  chagrin,  which 
changed  to  astonishment  when  Lord  Randolph  fired  out  that 
famous  Pigott  speech,  in  which  he  attacked  his  late  colleagues 
with  a  vituperation  and  vulgarity  he  had  never  before  betrayed. 
His  speech  electrified  the  House  and  disgusted  his  friends — 
none  more  so  than  his  faithful  Jennings,  who  left  the  Chamber 
directly  after  his  "  friend's  "  tirade  of  abuse,  returning  later  in 
the  evening  to  make  a  capital  speech,  full  of  feeling  and  power, 
in  which  he  finally  threw  over  Lord  Randolph.  In  the  mean- 
time, meeting  me,  he  did  not  hide  the  fact  that  the  incident  had 
determined  him  to  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  Churchill.  And 
this  was  the  man  I  once  drew  a  cartoon  of  in  Punch  on  all  fours. 


188 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


•\vitli  a  coat  covering  his  head  (suspiciously  like  a  donkey's  head), 
witli  "  Little  Eaudy  "  riding  on  his  back  ! 

If  Samson's  strength  vanished  with  his  hair,  Lord  Eandolph  s 
strength  vanished  with  the  growing  of  his  beard.  The  real 
renson  why  Lord  Randolph  so  strangely  transformed  himself  is 
not  generally  known,  but  it  was  for  the  simplest  of  all  reasons — 
like  that  of  the  gentleman  who  committed  suicide  because  lie 
was  "  tired  of  buttoning  and  unbuttoning."  Lord  Randolph 
w^as  tired  of  shaving  or  being  shaved  ;  hence  the  heroic  beard, 
which  has  offended   certain  political  purists  who  think  that  a 

man  with  an  established 
reputation  has  no  right  to 
alter  his  established  appear- 
ance. Still,  if  he  had  not 
vanished  to  grow  his  beard, 
I  doubt  if  he  would  have 
survived  the  winter ;  and 
probably  he  discovered  that 
it  was  good  for  any  man  to 
escape  now  and  then  from 
what  the  late  Mr.  R.  L. 
Stevenson  called  "the  servile 
life  of  cities."  Perhaps  no 
one  received  such  a  "sending 
off,"  or  was  more  feted,  than 
Lord  Randolph  Churchill.  Happening  to  be  a  guest  at  more 
than  one  of  those  festive  little  gatherings,  I  heard  Lord  Randolph 
say  that  all  the  literary  food  that  he  was  taking  out  Avith  him  to 
Mashonaland  consisted  of  the  works  of  two  authors— one  English, 
and  the  other  French.  We  were  asked  who  they  were.  "  In 
Darkest  England,"  suggested  one.  "  Ruffs  Guide  to  the  Turf," 
said  another.  Both  were  wrong.  And  it  ultimately  transpired 
that,  together  with  his  friends'  best  wishes  for  his  safe  return, 
Lord  Randolph  was  carrying  with  him  complete  sets  of  the 
works  of  Shakespeare  and  ]Molier('. 

The  deafness  which  attacked  Lord  Randol})h  led  to  his  making 
mistakes,  and  to  otlicrs  making  a  scene,  particularly  when  the 


LORD  RANDOLPH  AND   LOUIS   JENNINGS, 


PARLIAMENTARY  CONFESSIONS. 


189 


noise  in  the  House  was  so  great  through  the  excitement  on  the 
Home  Rule  question.  I  find  a  note  made  then  upon  this  point, 
alluding  to  a  little  incident  a  propos  of  Lord  Randolph  Churchill's 
deafness  :  "  It  is  really  dangerous,  considering  the  high  state  of 
feeling  in  the  House,  that  Members  antagonistic  to  each  other 
should  have  to  sit  side  by  side.  During  the  stormy  scene  to 
which  I  have  just  alluded,  I  was  sitting  in  one  of  the  front  boxes 
directly  over  the  Speaker's  chair, 
and,  although  remarks  kept  flying 
about  from  the  benches  below,  it 
was  diflicult  to  catch  the  words, 
and  still  more  difficult  to  stop  the 
utterer ;  so  I  don't  wonder  th;it 
Lord  Randolph  Churchill — who  is 
rather  deaf — should  have  miscon- 
strued the  words,  '  You  are  not 
dumb  ! '  as  'You  are  knocked  up  ! ' 
Later  on,  however,  an  Irish  Member 
knocked  down  another  one  who 
was  opposed  to  him  in  politics ; 
and  this  the  Press  called  '  coming 
into  collision,' " 

There  is  little  doubt  that  ill-health 
was  the  cause  of  that  querulousness 
which  led  to  Lord  Randolph's 
curious  and  fatal  move.  I  recollect 
beino;  introduced  to  an  American 
doctor  in  the  Lobby  one  afternoon 
when  Lord  Randolph  was  at  the  zenith  of  his  height  and  fame. 
Lord  Randolph  passed  close  to  us,  and  stood  for  a  few  minutes 
talking  to  the  Member  who  had  introduced  the  doctor  to  me.  I 
whispered  to  the  American  to  take  stock  of  the  Member  his 
friend  was  talking  to.  He  did,  and  when  Lord  Randolph 
walked  away  he  said,  "Well,  I  don't  know  who  that  man  is,  but 
he  won't  live  five  years."  It  was  unfortunate  for  the  reputation 
of  Lord  Randolph  that  the  doctor's  words  did  not  come  true. 

Many  eflbrts  were  made  by  the  friends  of  Lord  Randolph  to 


LORD  RANDOLPH  CHURCHILL. 


190 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


bring  Lord  Salisbury  and  his  lieutenant  together  again.  A 
deputation  of  a  few  intimate  friends,  ladies  as  well  as  gentlemen, 
called  on  Lord  Salisbury,  presumably  on  quite  a  different  matter, 
but  led  up  to  Lord  Randolph.  Lord  Salisbury,  seeing  through 
their  object,  asked  the  question,  "  Have  any  of  you  ever  had  a 
carbuncle  on  the  back  of  your  neck  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  I  have,  and  I  do  not  Avant  another." 

But  perhaps  Lord  Salisbury  saw  more  than  anyone  else  that 
Lord  Randolph  was  not  the  man  he  once  was.  It  was  painful  in 
his  latter  days  to  see  the  Members  run  out  of  the  House  when  he 
rose  to  speak,  and  to  recollect  that  but  a  few  years  before  they 
poured  in  to  listen  to  the  "plucky  little  Randy";  and  the 
sympatliy  of  everyone  for  him  was  shown  in  a  very  marked  way 
by  the  kindness  of  the  Press  when  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
figures  in  the  Parliamentary  world  had  passed  away. 


BEHIND   THE    SPEAKERS   CHAIR. 


Lord ,  Randolph  Churcliill  recalls  another  familiar  figure  I 
caricatured — Lord  Iddesleigh,  a  statesman  who  will  always  be 
rememl)ered  with  respect.  No  statue  lias  ever  been  erected  in 
the  l)uildiiigs  of  the  House  of  Commons  to  any  ^Member  who 
better  deserves  it,   and,  stranoe  to  sav,  the  white  marble  took 


PARLIAMEJS'^TARY  CONFESSIONS. 


191 


the  character  and  style  of  the  man,  chilliness,  pure,  and  firm. 
A  country  gentleman  in  politics  and  out  of  it,  free  from  flashy 
party-colour  rhetoric. 


ir  Stafford  Northcote,  as  he  was 
known  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
the  gentlest  of  statesmen,  had  by 
no  means  a  peaceful  career  in 
politics.  He  was  at  one  time  Mr. 
Gladstone's  secretary,  and  those 
who  knew  him  declare  that  he 
never  lost  his  respect  and  admira- 
tion for  his  former  master,  although 
time  took  him  from  Mr.  Gladstone's 
flock  to  the  fold  of  Lord  Beacons- 
field.  I  recollect  on  one  occasion, 
when  I  was  seated  in  a  Press  box 
directly  over  the  Speaker's  chair, 
seeing  Mr.  Gladstone  write  a  memorandum  on  a  piece  of  paper 
and  throw  it  across  the  table  to  Sir  Stafford,  who  was  at  that  time 
Leader  of  the  House  of  Commons ;  after  reading  it,  Sir  Stafford 
nodded  to  Mr.  Gladstone,  and  they  both  rose  together  and  went 
behind  the  Speaker's  chair.  One  could  easily  detect  in  the  manner 
of  the  two  old  friends  an  existence  of  personal  regard,  and  their 
estrangement  on  political  circumstances  must  have  been  a  matter 
of  mutual  regret.  Sir  Stafford  and  ]\Ir.  Gladstone  towards  the 
end,  however,  did  not  show  that  friendliness  that  had  gone  on 
for  so  many  years.  This  may  have  been  brought  about  by 
many  causes,  not  the  least  of  which  was  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Gladstone  refused  to  lead  the  House  durino;  the  Bradlaugh 
scene,  and  left  it  to  Sir  Stafford,  then  Leader  of  the  Opposition. 
For  instance,   after  the  division  in  which  Mr.  Bradlaugli  was 


192  CONFESSIONS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

refused  the  House  by  a  vote  of  383  to  233,  the  Speaker  appealed 
to  the  House  to  know  wliat  to  do.     Mr.  BradLaugh  stood  at 
the  table  and  refused  to  leave  it.     Mr.  Gladstone  lay  back  on 
the  seat  of  the  Government  bench  motionless,   so  Sir  Stafford 
took   up   the   leadership  of  the    House,   and  asked  the  Prime 
Minister,  whom  he  facetiously  called  the  Leader  of  the  House, 
*'  whether  he  intended  to   propose   any  counsel,  any  course  for 
the  purpose  of  maintaining  the  authority  of   the    House  and 
of  the  Cliair."     And  so  it  was  on  many  occasions.     When  Mr. 
Bradlaugli  did  rush  up  to  tlie  table  of  the  House,  escorted  by 
]Mr.  Labouchere  and  Mr.  Bass,  and  went  through  the  amusing 
part  of  taking  the  oath,  he  brought  the  book  which  he  kissed 
and  the  papers  which  he  signed,  and  then  rushed  back  into  his 
seat.     The  House   witnessed  the  scene  indescribable  by  either 
pen  or  pencil.     But  here  again  Mr.  Gladstone  refused  to  lead 
the  House.     There  had  been  a  division,  and  Mr.  Bradlaugli  had 
once   more  been  refused  admission ;  so  Sir  Stafford  North  cote 
came  forward,  as  he  always  did  on  these  occasions,  in  the  mildest 
possible  way  and  the  most  gentlemanly  manner,  which  rather 
added  to   the    effect    of    his    taking    the    reins    left    dangling 
uselessly  by  the  Leader  of  the  House.     He  said  :  "  Mr.  Speaker, 
I  need  hardly  say  that  if  the  Leader  of  the   House  desires  to 
rise,  I  will  give  him  the  opportunity  ;  but  assuming  that  he  does 
not,  I  intend  to  do  so,  and  as  I  see  no  indication  of  his  consent 
to  do  so,  I  shall  call  the  attention  of  the  House  to  the  position 
in  which   we   stand,"   and  so  on.     Sir  Stafford  Northcote  was 
not  a  man  to  stand  the  rough  treatment  which  Members  have  had 
in  the  House  during  the  last  fifteen  years.     Had  he   been    a 
Member  twenty  years  before  that,  or  even  a  little  more,  he  would 
have  been  more  in  tone  with  the  "  best  club  in  London."     He 
was    perplexed    ])y  Mr.    Gladstone,   he    was   bullied   by    Lord 
Randolph  Churchill,  and  he  was  generally  looked  upon  as  an 
old  woman,  and  eventually  he  was  simply  sent  up  to  the  other 
House.     It  was  not  until  his  sad  and  tragic  death  occurred  that 
everyone  realised  that    they   had    lost    one    of   the    most   able 
statesmen  and  one  of  the  finest  o-entlemen  that  ever  sat  in  the 
House  of  C^ommons. 


PARLIAMENTARY  COXFESSIONS. 


193 


ad  Mr.  Bradlaugh 
taken  the  oath  with 
the  rest  of  the 
Members  when 
first  introduced  to 
the  House,  or  had 
he,  after  refusinsf 
to  take  it,  behaved 
with  less  violence, 
I  doubt  if  he  would 
have  made  any 
name  in  Parlia- 
ment. The  House 
determined  to  fioht 
Bradlaugh,  and  it  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at,  for  he 
paraded  his  atheism,  and  his 
views  on  other  matters,  in 
the  most  repulsive  manner 
possible.  But  Bradlaugh  did 
not  run  the  risk  of  fightino: 
down  mere  prejudice.  Had  he  taken  the  oath,  he  would  only  have 
won  the  ear  of  the  House  by  proving  himself  a  great  politician. 
This  he  w^as  not,  though  he  was  a  hard-working  one,  and  a  model 
Member  from  a  constituency's  point  of  view.  But  the  only  big 
question  he  mastered  was  his  own  right  to  take  his  seat.  Once  he 
got  it,  he  became  a  respectable  and  respected  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  nothing  more.  So,  with  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent,  he 
did  not  enter  the  House  quietly  to  fight  a  wearisome  and  impossible 
battle  against  the  inveterate  prejudices  of  the  Members.  No, 
Bradlaugh  defied  the  House  of  Commons ;  he  horrified  it,  he 
insulted  it,  he  lectured  it,  he  laughed  at  it,  he  tricked  it,  he 
shamed  it,  he  humiliated  it,  he  conquered  it.  He  l)rought  to 
their  knees  the  men  who  howled  at  him — as  no  otlier  man  has 
ever  been  howled  at  l)efore — by  sheer  force  of  character. 

C. — VOL.   J.  o 


B^ 


194 


CONFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


Bradlaucrh's  bitter  struo-crle  would  fill  a  volume.  Select 
Committees  were  appointed,  aud  they  declared  against  him. 
Ignoring  them,  Bradlaugh  marched  up  to  the  table  and 
demanded  to  be  sworn.     The  Fourth  Party  would  not  let  him 


S^S^.  tXTR^CtltO  FR(3M  THE  dtt^feV  tP^L 

BRADLAUGH   TRIUMPHANT.      From    ^^  PuUfh.'" 


touch  the  Testament.  Three  days  followed  of  angry  debate  on 
Bradiaughism,  with  more  scenes.  A  new  Committee  reversed 
the  decision  of  its  predecessor,  and  said  that  Bradlaugh  might 
athrm.  Two  days  were  consumed  in  discussino-  this,  and  the 
present  Lord  Cliancellor,  tlicn  Sir  ^iardinge  Giffard,  swayed  the 


PARLIAMENTARY  CONFESSIONS. 


195 


House  against  the  report  of  the  Committee.  Nothing  daunted, 
Mr.  Bradlaugh  the  very  next  day  was  back  at  the  table  of 
the  House,  clamouring  to  be  allowed  to  address  the  House  on 
his  case.  A  scene  of  wild  confusion  resulted,  Mr.  Bradlaugh 
endeavouring  to  speak,  the  House  howling  to  prevent  him. 
Eventually  he  was  ordered  below  the  Bar — that  is,  nominally 
outside  the  House,  although  within  the  four  walls.  After  much 
acrimonious  chatter  from  all  sides,  he  was  allowed  to  make 
his  speech.  His  hour  had  come. 
He  stood  like  a  prisoner  pleading 
before  a  single  judge  and  a  jury 
of  670  of  his  fellow-men.  His 
speech  was  more  worthy  of  the 
Surrey  Theatre  than  of  the  "  Best 
Club."  It  was  bombastic  and 
theatrical.  He  was  ordered  to 
withdraw,  while  the  jury  con- 
sidered their  verdict.  When  he  was 
recalled,  it  was  to  hear  sentence  of 
expulsion  passed  on  him.  But  he 
would  not  depart,  and  another 
tremendous  uproar  took  place. 
Mr.  Bradlaugh's  well-trained  plat- 
form voice  rose  above  all  others  in 
loud  assertion  of  his  "rights,"  and 
he  continued  to  call  for  them  all 

through  the  House,  the  Lobbies,  the  corridors,  up  the  winding  stair 
into  ttie  Clock  Tower,  where  he  was  immured  by  the  Sergeant- 
at- Arms,  The  following  day  he  was  released  after  another  angry 
debate,  and  he  quickly  returned  to  the  forbidden  precincts.  Then 
he  was  induced  to  quit,  but  on  the  next  day  he  came  down  to  the 
House  with  his  family,  and  with  a  triumphant  procession  entered 
the  House  amid  the  cheers  of  the  crowd.  So  the  drama  went  on 
day  after  day,  like  a  Chinese  play.  The  characters  in  it  were  acted 
by  the  leading  players  on  both  sides  of  the  House,  and  the  excite- 
ment never  flaQ-ged  for   a   moment  until  Mr.  Bradlauojh  was 


CHARLES   BRADLAUGH. 


allowed  to  affirm. 


He  was  told  that  he  would  vote  at  his  own 

o  2 


196  CONFESSIONS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

risk.  He  voted  repeatedly,  and  by  so  doing  incurred  a  fine, 
at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Justice  Mathew,  of  the  little  round  sum  of 
£100,000  (he  never  had  100,000  farthings),  nor  could  he  even 
open  his  moutli  in  the  House  without  savage  interruption. 
Finally,  Mr.  Labouchere,  his  colleague,  moved  for  a  new  writ 
for  the  borough  of  Northampton.  Bradlaugli  re-won  the  seat 
by  the  small  majority  of  132  votes,  and  the  Bradlaugh  incubus 
lay  once  more  on  Parliament.  Then  followed  the  same  old 
cycle  of  events,  the  same  scene  at  the  table,  the  same  angry 
religious  warfiire  in  debate  (Mr.  Ikight's  great  oratorical  effort 
will  be  rememl)ered),  the  same  speech  from  Mr.  Bradlaugh 
at  the  Bar,  the  same  division,  the  same  result.  Scene  followed 
scene,  and  scandal  scandal  for  weeks,  months,  years. 

To  appreciate  Mr.  John  Bright  fully,  one  must  have  heard 
him.  Really  to  comprehend  his  power  and  greatness,  one  must 
have  heard  him  at  his  best.  Yet  the  greatness  of  his  oratory 
lay  not  so  much  in  what  he  said  as  in  the  beautiful  way  he 
said  it. 

Previous  to  my  having  the  opportunity  of  listening  to  the 
debates,  Mr.  Bright  had  reached  that  stage  a  singer  reaches  who 
has  to  all  intents  retired  from  the  stage,  and  merely  makes  an 
appearance  for  someone's  benefit  now  and  then.  In  the  first  two 
or  three  years  which  - 1  recall  in  these  pages  Mr.  Bright  was 
making  his  last  appearance  in  grand  political  opera.  He  was 
in  the  Government,  but  although  he  assured  the  House  that  "  he 
was  not  going  to  turn  his  back  upon  himself — an  assertion  of 
his  powers  as  a  contortionist  I  endeavoured  to  depict  in  Punch 
the  following  week — Mr.  Bright  had  practically  turned  his  back 
upon  making  great  oratorical  displays.  The  Bradlaugh  scandal 
was  in  1881  the  subject  of  the  hour,  and  it  was  Avhilst 
appearing  for  Mr.  Bradlaugh's  benefit,  on  the  occasion  of  one  of 
the  numerous  matinees  arranged  by  the  elected  for  Northampton, 
that  Mr.  Bright  used  the  words.  But  on  no  occasion  in  my 
memory  did  he  rise  in  a  full-dress  debate  to  make  one  of  those 
grand  efibrts  with  which  his  name  will  ever  be  remembered  as 
the  great  orator. 

Statesmanship  Avas  not  so  much  to  him  as  speechifying.     He 


PARLIAMENT  A  R  Y   COXFESSIOXS. 


197 


was  not  a  diplomatist  such  as  Beaconsfield,  a  tactician  like 
Mr.  Gladstone,  a  fearless,  dashing  debater  like  Lord  Derby  the 
elder,  "  The  Rupert  of  Debate  "  ;  nor  had  he  the  weight  of  Lord 
Salisbury,  nor  the  sestheticism  of  Mr.  Balfour.  But  as  a  mere 
voice  in  the  political  opera  he  had  a  charm  above  them  all.     In 


THE   MEET  AT   ST,   STEPHEN'S. 


appearance  lie  was  commonplace  compared  with  these  others  I 
have  mentioned.  Often  the  most  indifferent-lookino;  horse  in 
the  stable  or  in  the  paddock  is  the  best  in  action.  You 
would  not  give  5^40  for  some  standing  at  ease ;  but  in 
action,  moving  to  perfection,  with  fire  and  speed  and  staying 
power,  the  price  is  more  like  5£20,000.  Mr.  Bright  never  got 
into  his  stride  at  any  time  or  in  any  event  while  he  came  under 
my  observation. 

These  equine  remarks  about  a  great  politician  bring  to  mind 
a  protest  I  received  about  a  drawing  of  mine,  which  appeared  a 
year  or  two  ago,  representing  Mr.  Gladstone  as  a  Grand  Old 
Horse,  hearing  the  horn  at  the  meet,  cantering  towards  his 
companions    in    so   many   runs    in    wliicli   he    had   taken   the 


198  COXFEHSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

lead,  and  for  whicli  his  day  had  gone.  The  protest  came 
from  a  Quaker,  horrified  at  my  depicting  Mr.  Gladstone 
as  a  gee-gee !  as  if  he  had  not  been  so  depicted  often  enough 
before. 

Jacob  Brio-ht  was  the  very  antithesis  to  his  brother,  both  in 
appearance  and  manner — tall,  of  a  nervous,  wiry  frame,  rigid  face, 
severe  expression.  He,  like  others  without  a  spark  of  humour, 
was  often  the  means  of  unconscious  merriment.  For  instance, 
when  Lord  Randolph  Churchill  was  Member  for  Woodstock,  Mr. 
Jacob  Brio-ht  referred  to  him  as  the  noble  lord  "  the  Member  for 
Woodcock."  Sir  John  Tenniel  in  the  cartoon  in  Punch,  and 
myself  in  the  minor  pictures  of  Parliament  in  that  journal,  made 
full  use  of  the  "  woodcock,"  and,  therefore,  revelling  in  heraldry, 
quickly  added  the  woodcock  to  the  Churchill  arms. 

Half  the  bores  in  London  clubs  are  Indian  officials  returned 
to  us  with  their  digestion  and  their  temper  destroyed,  to  spend 
the  rest  of  their  days  in  fighting  their  poor  livers  and  their 
unhappy  friends.  The  etiquette  of  Clubland  prevents  one  from 
protesting.  But  in  the  "  Best  Club "  they  are  not  spared. 
They  are  either  howled  at,  or  left  to  speak  to  empty  benches. 

Perhaps  Sir  George  Campbell,  who  had  been  Governor  of 
Bombay,  was  the  most  eccentric  bore  we  have  ever  had  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  Sir  George  has  acknowledo;ed  that  he 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  speak.  On  one  occasion  he 
made  no  less  than  fifty-five  speeches  on  the  Standing  Committee 
of  one  Bill.  At  breakfast  in  the  mornino-  he  read  in  the  Times 
his  heated,  unconsidered  interruptions  in  the  Jlouse  the  night 
before,  and  he  read  of  the  contempt  with  which  they  were 
received — the  "  Loud  laughter,"  cries  of  "  Order  !  "  "  Divide  ! 
divide !  divide  ! "  and  the  snubs  administered  to  him  by  the 
wearied  and  disgusted  Members.  He  read  after  liTncli  at  his 
club  the  jeering  remarks  of  the  evening  Press.  He  was  well 
aware  he  was  a  nuisance  to  the  House,  and  he  resolved  as  he 
walked  down  Whitehall  not  to  open  his  mouth.  But  as  soon  as 
he  crossed  Palace  Yard  and  entered  the  corridors  of  the  House 
he  sniff"ed  the  odour  of  authority  and  the  fever  of  debate.  He, 
the  Great    Sir  Georoe    of   India — silent  ?      Never !       Whether 


PARLIAMENTARY   CONFESSIONS. 


199 


there  was  a  question  about  the  bathing-machines  on  the  beach 
at  Hastings,  or  the  spread  of  scarlet  fever  at  Battersea,  or  about 
an  old  pump  at  Littleshrimpton,  he  cared  not :  he  must  act  his 
part — that  of  the  Pantaloon  in  Parliament. 

In  appearance  he  was  a  striking,  handsome  man,  with  a  strong 
individuality.  A  good  head,  piercing  eye,  w^ell-shaped  nose,  and 
tall,  active  frame  no  doubt  added  to  his  authority  in  India. 
He  struck  me  as  a  man  who  had  been  taken  to  pieces  on  his 
way  home  to  this  country,  and  put  together  again  badly,  for  his 
joints  were  all  Avrong.  Certainly  his  head  was,  and  he  was  over 
wound  up.  His  tongue  never  ceased,  and 
the  worst  of  it  was  he  had  a  rasping,  pene- 
trating voice,  with  the  strongest  Scotch 
accent.  One  afternoon  in  the  House  this 
accent  led  to  one  of  those  frequent  out- 
bursts of  merriment  and  protest  combined 
— so  common  when  Sir  George  bored  the 
House,  as  he  was  always  doing.  Some- 
times he  made  over  thirty  speeches  in  one 
evening.  A  question  was  asked  about  the 
obstructive  methods  of  the  irrepressible 
Sir  George,  who  on  this  particular  after- 
noon was  supported  in  his  boredom  by  two 
other  bores,  the  Member  for  Sunderland 
and  Mr.  Conybeare.  These  three  had  the 
House  to  themselves,  and  peppered  the  Government  benches  with 
question  after  question,  speech  after  speech.  Sir  George  alluded 
to  themselves  as  "a  band  of  devoted  guerillas.'^  The  weary  House, 
not  paying  particular  attention  to  every  accent,  failed  to  catch 
most  of  what  Sir  George  said,  as  his  rasping  Scotch  accent  left 
them  no  escape.  But  the  last  word  was  misunderstood,  and  an 
outburst  of  laughter,  long,  loud,  and  hearty,  followed,  and,  in  a 
Parliamentary  sense,  killed  Sir  George  for  the  day.  The  House 
understood  him  to  say  "a  band  of  us  devoted  gorillas." 

Perhaps  the  neatest  rebuke  Sir  George  ever  had  in  the  House — 
or,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  any  Member  ever  had — was  administered 
by  that  most  polished  wit,  Mr.  Plunket  (now  Lord  Kathmore). 


SIR   GEORGE   CAMPBELL. 


200  COXFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

Sir  George  solemnly  rose  and  asked  Mr.  Plunket,  who  happened 
at  the  time  to  be  Minister  of  Public  Works,  whether  he  (Mr. 
Plunket)  was  responsible  for  the  "fearful  creatures"  whose 
effio:ies  adorn  the  staircase  of  Westminster  Hall.  Mr.  Plunket 
rose  and  quietly  replied,  in  his  effective,  hesitating  manner,  "  I 
am  not  responsible  for  the  fearful  creatures  either  in  West- 
minster Hall  or  in  this  House,"  a  retort  which  "  brought  down 
the  House  "  and  caused  it  to  laugh  loud  and  long.  This  I 
chronicled  in  a  drawing  for  Punch  the  following  week. 

The  subject  of  gargoyles  recalls  another  witticism,  which, 
however,  has  the  light  touch  that  failed. 

Now  there  is  nothing  so  disappointing  to  a  humorist  as  to 
lead  up  to  an  interruption,  and  then  find  he  is  not  interrupted. 
Mr.  Chamberlain  seldom  fails  to  bring  off  his  little  unsuspected 
repartee,  and  it  is  his  mastery  of  this  art  that  make  his  speeches 
sparkle  with  diamond  brilliancy,  but  then  these  are  usually 
serious,  and  he  can  afford  a  few  miss-fires.  Mr.  Goschen,  in  the 
Commons,  romped  through  his  "plants"  for  his  opponents;  his 
interruptions  were  three  or  four  deep,  but  he  was  ready  for  all 
of  them.  He  may  be  likened  to  a  professional  chess  player, 
playing  a  dozen  opponents  at  once,  and  remembering  all  the 
moves  on  the  separate  boards.  But  for  a  humorist  to  miss  fire 
— after  an  elaborate  joke  is  prepared — is  a  catastrophe. 

Colonel  Sanderson  rose  on  a  very  important  and  ticklish 
occasion  to  "  draw "  Mr.  Labouchere.  The  Member  for 
Northampton  had  been  electrifying  the  House  by  his  free 
handling  of  a  matter  affecting  the  morality  of  private  indi- 
viduals, a  course  of  action  for  w^hich,  later  on,  he  was  suspended. 
Colonel  Sanderson,  alluding  to  Mr.  Labouchere,  called  him  a 
"i:)olitical  gargoyle."  JNIr.  Labouchere  did  not,  as  was  expected, 
rise  in  a  furious  state  and  demand  an  explanation.  The  Colonel 
paused  and  repeated,  "  I  say  the  hon.  gentleman,  the  Member 
for  Northampton,  is  a  political  gargoyle."  No  notice  was  taken 
by  the  gentleman  compared  to  the  architectural  adornment  of 
past  days ;  it  was  evident  that,  like  the  gargoyle  in  ancient 
architecture,  the  remark  of  tlie  humorous  Colonel  was  some 
elaboration  too   lofty  to  be  noticed.      A  few  days  afterwards 


PARLIAMENTARY  CONFESSIONS. 


201 


Mr.  Labouclierc  met  the  Colonel,  and  asked  him  what  he  meant 
by  calling  him  a  political  gargoyle.     "Well,"  said  the  Colonel, 


HERALDIC     DESIGN    ILLUSTRATING 
MR.      PLUXKET'S      (now       LORD 

rathmore)      joke.       From 
"  Punch." 


"  rather  late  to  ask  me  ;    you  will  find  the  definition  in  the  dic- 
tionary.    It  is  a  grotesque  gutter-spout."    Said  Mr.  Labouchere, 


202 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A   CARICATURIST. 


"  You're  a  very  clever  fellow,  Colonel ;   that  would  have  been 
a  capital  point — if  you  had  made  it." 

Mr.  Farmer  Atkinson,  who  succeeded  Sir  AVilliam  Ingram  of 
the  Illustrated  London  Neivs  and  the  Sketch  as  Member  for 
Boston,  Lincolnshire,  was  an  invaluable  "  subject"  for  me  during 
his  brief  hour  upon  the  Parliamentary  stage.  Our  introduction 
was  peculiar.  It  so  happened  that  when  Mr.  (now  Sir) 
Christopher  Furness  was  first  returned  for  Hartlepool,  Mr. 
Atkinson,  although  of  opposite  politics,  was  most  anxious  to 
welcome  him  to  Parliament  as  a  companion  Dissenter.  After 
diligent  inquiries  for  Mr.  Furness,  I  w^as  by  mistake  pointed  out 
to  him.     I  suddenly  found  both  my  hands  clasped  and  warmly 

shaken  by  the  mistaken  M.P. 
"  Delighted  to  meet  you,  Mr. 
Furness !  Allow  me  to  con- 
gratulate you.  We  are  both 
Dissenters,  you  know, — what  a 
pity  we  are  on  different  sides  of 
the  House ! " 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "a  thousand 
pities, — you  see,  you  are  inside 
and  I  am  outside." 

My  introduction  to  Mr.  Chris- 
topher Furness  a  day  or  two  afterwards  was  in  a  way  similar, 
but  rather  more  embarrassing. 

Perhaps  there  are  not  two  men  with  surnames  so  similar  and 
yet  so  different  in  every  other  way  than  that  great  man  of 
business,  Sir  Christopher  Furness,  and  myself.  He  has  an  eye 
for  business,  but  not  one  for  his  surname — I  have  an  "  I  "  in  my 
name,  and  two  for  art  only.  AVlien  Mr.  Furness  was  first 
returned  to  Parliament,  plain  Mr.,  neither  a  knight  nor  a 
millionaire,  then  he  asked  to  see  me  alone  in  one  of  the  Lobbies 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  He  held  a  note  in  his  hand, 
stnmgehj  and  nervously, — so  1  knew  at  once  it  was  not  a 
bank-note. 

"  I — ah — am  very  sorry, — you  are  a  stranger  to  me,  I — a — 
stranoer  to  the  House.      This  note  from  a  stranoer  A\as  handed 


ME.    FARMER   ATKINSON. 


PARLIAMENTARY  CONFESSIONS.  203 

to  me  by  a  strange  official.  I  read  it  before  I  noticed  the 
mistake.     It  is  addressed  to  you." 

"  Oh,  that  is  of  no  consequence,  I  assure  you,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  but  it  is — it  must  be  of  consequence.  It  is — of — such 
a  private  nature,  and  so  brief.  I  feel  extremely  awkward  in 
having  to  acknowledge  I  read  it, — a  pure  accident,  I  assure 
you! 

He  handed  me  the  note  and  was  running  away,  when  I  called 
him  back.     It  read : — 

"  Meet  me  under  the  clock  at  8. 

"Lucy." 

"  I  must  introduce  you  to  Lucy." 

*'  No,  no  !  not  for  worlds." 

But  I  did.     Here  he  is.       /^^^^^ 

There  were  more  Wm(f^  ^^  "scenes"  in  Parlia- 
ment in  the  few  sessions  iK^^^p  that  I  have  selected  to 
write  about  in  this  volume  rK^MMf-  than  there  were  in  the 
rest  of  the  last  century  '0^^^^,  put  together.  Tliis 
was   largely    due   to    the  climax  of  Irish  affairs 

in  the  House.  For  effect  in  debate  the  English  and  Scotch 
Members, — not  to  speak  of  the  Welsh  Representatives, — are 
failures  compared  with  those  Members  from  across  the  water. 
No  matter  how  hard  the  phlegmatic  Englishman,  the  querulous 
Scotchman,  or  the  whinings  of  those  from  gallant  little  Wales  may 
try  for  effect,  they  have  to  give  way  to  the  Irish  in  the  art  of 
making  a  scene  in  the  House.  Occasionally,  as  when  Dr.  Kenealy 
shook  some  pepper  over  the  House,  and  in  the  case  of  Mr. 
Plimsoll — or  some  other  honourable  gentleman — who  went  so 
far  as  to  hang  his  umbrella  on  the  Mace,  an  English  Member 
causes  a  sensation  which  might  almost  excite  a  pang  of  envy 
in  the  breast  of  Dr.  Tanner  or  Mr.  Healy.  No  Englishman, 
however,  has  exceeded  Mr.  Bradlaugh  in  the  persistent  quality 
of  sensationalism  in  Parliament,  which  now  is  sadly  in  want  of 
another  political  phenomenon  to  enliven  its  proceedings. 

One  of  the  best  studies  in  those  days  of  good  subjects  for  the 
Parliamentaiy  caricaturist  was  the  figure  of  that  "  squat  and 


204 


COXFESSIOyS   OF  A   CARICATURIST. 


leering  Qiiilp,"  Joseph  Gil  lis  Biggar,  Member  for  County  Cavan. 
Mr.  Lucy  (Toby,  M.P.),  who  acted  as  Biggar's  Boswell,  records 
the  interestino;  fact  tliat  when  Mr.  Bio-g-ar  rose  for  the  first  time 
in  the  House  (1874)  to  put  a  supplementary  question  to  a 
Minister,  Mr.  Disraeli,  startled  by  the  apparition,  turned  to  Lord 
Barrington  as  if  he  had  seen  seated  in  the  Irish  quarter  an 
ourano-outanji;  or  some  other  stran2;e  creature, — "What's  that?" 
From  that  moment  Mr.  Biggar  was  a  continual  source  of 
amusement — and  "copy."     I  venture  to  say  that  Toby,  M. P., 

has  written  a  good-sized 
volume  about  Mr.  Big- 
gar's  waistcoat  alone. 
What  he  saw  in  the 
waistcoat  to  chronicle  I 
confess  I  have  failed  to 
see.  "A  fearsome 
garment,"  Mr.  Lucy 
called  it,  "  which,  at  a 
distance,  -might  be  taken 
for  sealskin,  but  was 
understood  to  be  of 
native  manufacture." 

Mr.  Bio-2;ar— waist- 
coat  and  all — was  cer- 
tainly seen  and  heard 
to  advantage  "at  a 
distance."  He  was  no  doubt  useful  to  his  Party,  acting,  as  I 
believe  he  did,  as  a  kind  of  good-natured  nurse  to  them,  looking 
after  their  comfort  and  seeing  they  kept  in  bounds. 

Mr.  Biggar  was  always  repulsive  in  both  appearance  and 
manner.  His  unfoi'tunate  deformity,  his  gargoyle-like  face,  his 
long,  bony  hands,  large  feet,  the  black  tail  cont  and  baggy 
black  trousers,  the  grin  and  the  grating  voice,  and  the  fact  that 
pork  was  his  study  before  Parliament,  made  Joseph  Gillis 
Biggar's  appearance  as  ugly  as  his  name.  His  chief  claim  to  a 
niche  in  Parliamentary  history  is  the  fac't  that  he  originated 
Obstruction,    and   showed   the   manner   in   which   it   should   be 


^ 


JOSEPH    GILLIS   BIGGAR. 


PARLIAMENTARY   CONFESSIONS.  205 

applied  by  making  a  speech  occupying  four  hours  of  valuable 
time.  He  also  showed  the  length  to  which  gross  impertinence 
cau  be  carried  to  bring  the  House  into  contempt.  He  "spied" 
His  Royal  Highness,  our  present  King,  one  day  in  the  gallery, 
and  by  the  law  of  Parliament  a  Member  by  suddenly  observing 
that  he  "  spies "  a  stranger  may  have  the  House  cleared  of  all 
but  its  Members,  including  Royalty — worse  than  that  he  on  one 
occasion  alluded  to  Mr.  Gladstone  as  "a  vain  old  gentleman," 

The  nearest  approach  I  ever  had  to  enter  into  practical  politics 
was  a  request  I  received  in  March,  1 892,  to  become  the  successor  of 
Lord  (then  Sir  Charles)  Russell,  as  chairman  of  a  local  Radical  asso- 
ciation. In  reply  I  confessed  my  political  creed,  and  I  see  no  reason 
to  alter  it. 

MY   POLITICAL   CONFESSION. 

L  have  just  received  your  flattering  communication  asking  me  to 
become  the  chairman  of  No.  2  Ward  of  the  East  Marylebone  Liberal  and 
Eadical  Association.  It  is  the  first  time  my  name  has  ever  been  associated 
with  Party  pohtics,  and  1  am  puzzled  to  know  myself  whether  I  am  a 
Eadical,  a  Tory,  a  Liberal,  or  a  Liberal  Unionist ! 

"  X  read  the  Times  every  morning,  and  the  Star  and  the  Pall  Mall 
Gazette  every  evening.  I  read  the  sporting  papers  for  their  politics,  and 
the  political  papers  for  their  literary  and  artistic  notes. 

X  work  sixteen  hours  a  day  myself,  and  would  agree  to  any  law  pro- 
hibiting others  in  my  profession  from  working  more  than  three  hours. 

"  X  am  strongly  opposed  to  Home  Eule,  as  the  disappearance  of  the  Irish 
Members  (who  are  invaluable  to  me  in  my  profession)  from  St.  Stephen's 
would  be  a  serious  loss  to  me. 

"  X  agree  to  paying  Members  of  Parliament,  but  would  propose  that  they 
should  be  fined  for  non-attendance,  and  for  the  privilege  of  speaking  too 
long,  too  often,  or  not  often  enough.  These  fines,  in  the  majority  of  cases, 
would  come  to  three  times  the  amount  of  the  Member's  income. 

X  am  not  in  favour  of  capital  punishment,  and  would  do  away  with  all 
judges  and  trials  by  jury,  leaving  the  Press  to  fight  out  the  criminal  cases 
between  themselves. 

X  believe  in  free  education,  free  libraries,  and  a  free  breakfast-table, 


20G 


COXFESSWNS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


and  would  propose  that  free  book-stalls  and  free  restaurants  should  be 
compulsory  on  all  railways. 

"  I  ana  strongly  opposed  to  vivisection,  and  hold  that  the  life  of  a  rabbit 
is  quite  as  valual)le  as  that  of  a  professor.  At  the  same  time  I  would  not 
countenance  any  law  making  it  a  punishable  offence  to  boil  a  lobster  alive. 

"  I  am  a  believer  in  hypnotism,  thought-reading,  and  theosophy  (I  have 
been  a  bit  of  an  amateur  conjurer  myself). 

"  Right  of  public  meeting  ?  Certainly.  This  should  be  a  free  country — 
everyone  do  as  he  likes.  Football  in  Hyde  Park,  and  fairs  in  Trafalgar 
Square.  Equal  freedom  for  all  processions — if  Booth  can  stop  the  traffic, 
why  not  Sanger's  menagerie  ? 

"  A_s  to  local  option,  by  all  means  let  all  public-houses  be  closed.  (I  never 
enter  one.)     And  all  clubs,  too,  so  long  as  my  own  are  not  interfered  with. 

"  I  am  not  at  present  a  member  of  any  political  club,  but  if  you  wish 
me  to  become  one  I  will  put  up  at  the  Eeform,  either  as  a  fervent 
Gladstonian  or  a  red-hot  Unionist ;  I  don't  mind  which,  as  neither  have 
the  slightest  chance  of  getting  in  now. 

"If,  after  considering  these  qualifications,  you  are  of  opinion  that  I 
would  be  the  right  man  in  the  right  place,  I  shall  be  most  happy  and 
willing  to  become  your  chairman. — Yours,  etc." 


regret  to  have  to  confess  that  I  once 
posed  as  a  political  prophet.  I  was 
encouraged  to  prophesy  the  fact  that 
six  months  before  the  election  of  July, 
1892,  when  Mr.  Gladstone  was  con- 
fident of  "  sweeping  the  country  "  and 
coming  back  with  a  majority  of  170 
or  so,  when  both  sides  predicted  a. 
decisive  result,  and  political  prophets 
were  cocksure  of  large  figures,  I  luckily 
happened  to  be  more  successful  in  my 
vaticinations  than  they,  giving  the 
Gladstoiiiniis  a  majority  of  something  between  forty  and  forty-five. 


PARLIAMENTARY  CONFESSIONS.  207. 

The  actual  majority  turned  out,  six  months  afterwards,  to  be 
forty-two.  This  encouraged  me  to  write  the  following  letter  to 
the  Times,  and  it  appeared  July  19  th  : 

"J.  Parliamentary  Prophecy. 

"  Sir, — I  am  surprised  that  no  Parliamentary  chronicler  has  written  to  the 
papers  to  thank  the  electors  of  the  United  Kingdom  for  the  happy  result 
of  the  General  Election.  The  jaded  journalist  is  the  only  person  to  whom 
the  result  is  pleasing,  as  he  will  have  no  lack  of  material  for  descriptive 
matter  in  the  coming  Parliament. 

"The  Gladstonians  are  not  pleased,  because  they  have  barely  got  a 
working  majority.  The  Conservatives  are  not  pleased,  because  they  have 
not  got  one  at  all.  The  Liberal  Unionists  are  not  pleased,  because  they 
go  with  the  Conservatives.  The  Irish  Nationalists  are  chagrined,  because 
of  the  success  of  live  Unionists  in  Ireland.  The  Parnellites  feel  mischievous 
but  unhappy.  The  Labour  representatives  mischievous  and  happy — they 
are  the  heroes  of  the  hour — and,  although  the  members  of  the  Labour 
Party  have  hitherto  been  nonentities  in  the  House,  they  will  probably  be 
'  named  '  several  times  in  the  future.  But  Parliament  is  a  refrigerator 
for  red-hot  rhetoric,  and  such  Members  will,  in  time,  find  respectability  and 
aspirants,"''  and  grow  dull. 

"A  harassed  leader,  an  ambitious  Opposition,  the  balance  of  power 
resting  in  the  hands  of  the  Irish,  divided  amongst  themselves,  a  new  and 
probably  noisy  party,  boredom  increased,  faddism  intensified — such  are  the 
ingredients  of  the  new  House ;  and  with  little  spice  thrown  in  in  the  shape 
of  a  revived  morality  scandal,  the  new  Parliament  promises  to  be  a  hotch- 
potch of  surprises.  I  myself  take  no  side  in  politics,  and  am  glad  to  say  that 
I  have  numerous  friends  in  all  parties.  Perhaps  it  was  in  consequence  of 
this  that  I  heard  all  sides  of  opinion,  thereby  enabling  me  six  months  ago- 
to  weigh  all  my  information  correctly  and  predict  the  result  of  the  General 
Election — a  Gladstonian  majority  of  between  forty  and  forty-five  votes — 
and  to  this  opinion  I  have  firmly  adhered  in  spite  of  the  fluctuating^ 
prospects  before  the  fight.  Even  on  Wednesday,  the  6th  inst.,  when  the 
returns  pouring  in  seemed  to  point  to  a  Government  majority,  I  stuck  to 
my  prophecy. 

"  I  am  now  receiving  from  my  friends  (more  especially  from  my  Liberal 
friends)  congratulations  upon  my  perspicacity,  and,  although  I  am  no- 
Schnadhorst,  I  must  now  regard  myself  in  the  light  of  a  Parliamentary 
prophet.  Having  in  that  capacity  chanted  my  incantations  and  calculated 
the  number  of  square  feet  of  Irish  linen  in  one  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  collars 
to  be  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  dimensions  of  his  Mid-Lothian  majority,  and 
having  by  abstruse  computations  discovered  the  hitherto  unknown  quantity 
of  Sir  WilUam  Harcourt's  chins,  I  can  safely  predict  that  there  will  be 

*  See  page  212. 


208 


COSFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


PUNCH,  OR  THE  LONDON  CHARIVARI. 


[Mabob  29,  1890. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    COMMONS    FROM    TOBY'S    PRIVATE    BOX 


another  General  Election  ^vithin  the  space  of  thirteen  months,  and  that  the 
result  of  the  same  Avill  be  the  return  of  the  Unionists  with  a  majority  of  fifteen. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"Harry  Furniss. 
"  Garrick  Clul),  London,  .Tulv  19." 


The  regret  I  felt  was  not  caused  l)y  any  failure  of  my  predic- 
tion contained  in  the  last  }»ar;igra[)h  in  that  letter,  but  that  the 
whole  of  it  was  taken  seriously.      Editorial  leaders  appeared  in 


PARLIAMENTARY   CONFESSIONS.  209 

the  principal  papers  all  over  the  kingdom.  Letters  followed, 
discussions  took  place,  and  politicians  referred  to  it  in  their 
speeches.  "  Mr.  Harry  Furniss  has  taken  the  public  into  his 
confidence,  as  one  who  is  thoroughly  acquainted  with  Party 
politics,  though  he  takes  no  personal  interest  in  them.  Men 
who  can  thus  truthfully  describe  themselves  are  excessively  rare, 
as  far  as  we  know.  It  is  usually  the  person  who  does  not  under- 
stand politics  who  takes  no  interest  in  them.  A  man  who 
understands  politics,  but  does  not  concern  himself  to  take  sides, 
is  in  the  position  of  the  looker-on  who  sees  most  of  the  game," 
was  truthfully  written  of  me  dj^rojyos  of  this  letter — but  why 
dpi'Opos  of  this  letter  "?  Why  not  of  my  serious  work  instead  1 
No,  my  "airy  persiflage"  was  only  a  cloak.  I  was  seriously 
and  instantaneously  accepted  as  a  serious  political  prophet,  and 
otherwise  criticised: 

"  To  the  Editor  of  the  '  Times.' 

"  Sir, — In  a  letter  signed  by  Mr.  Harry  Furniss,  which  appeared  in  the 
Times  of  the  21st  inst.,  the  writer  conckided  by  predicting  that  there  would 
be  another  general  election  within  thirteen  months,  and  that  the  result 
would  be  a  Unionist  majority  of  fifteen. 

"  Mr.  Furniss  is  evidently  fond  of  odd  numbers,  but  may  I  point  out  to 
him,  and  to  many  other  political  prophets  who  have  fallen  into  the  same 
trap,  that  tlie  fulfilment  of  his  prediction  is  an  impossibility? 

"In  a  House  of  670  Members,  or  any  other  even  number,  if  divided  into 
two  parties,  the  majority  (in  the  sense  he  uses  the  word — ^viz.,  the  difference) 
must  always  be  an  even  number.  It  is  true  that  the  division  lists  some- 
times show  a  majority  which  is  an  odd  number,  but  in  such  a  case  an  odd 
number  of  Members  must  have  been  absent  from  the  division.  Mr.  Furniss 
must  prophesy  either  fourteen  or  sixteen. 

"  The  English  language  is  so  defective  that  the  word  '  majority '  is  used 
to  mean  'the  greater  number,'  and  also  'the  difference  between  the 
greater  number  and  the  less.'  Cannot  a  new  word  l)e  invented  to  replace 
'  majority '  in  one  or  other  of  these  meanings,  and  so  avoid  the  use  of  the 
same  word  for  two  distinct  ideas  ? 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  George  E.  Gallaher, 
"  Fellow  of  the  Institute  of  Bankers. 

"44,  Fencliurch  Street,  London,  E.G." 

C. — VOL.   1,  P 


210  COXFESS/Oys   OF  A    C  ABIC  ATI' RI  ST. 

I  siii)posc  F.I.B.  stands  for  "Fellow  of  the  Institute  of 
Bunkers."'  Anyway,  before  I  had  time  to  reply  to  the  courteous 
captious  critic  the  Times  published  the  following  : 

"  Political  Prophecy. 
"Sir, — In  endeavouring  to  correct  Mr.  Furniss  your  correspondent 
^Ir.  Gallaher  has  forgotten  that,  although  the  House  of  Commons  con- 
sists of  an  even  numher  of  Memhers,  one  of  those  Members  will  be  elected 
Speaker ;  and  that  consequently,  if  all  the  Members  were  on  any  occasion 
to  attend,  the  majority  would  be  an  odd,  and  not  an  even  number.  There 
is  therefore  no  necessity  for  Mr.  Furniss  to  alter  his  prophecy  at  present. 

"  Yovu"  obedient  servant, 

"  Faik  Play." 

Other   correspondents,  less    technical  but  strongly  political, 

accused  me  of  being  "an  inspired  Conservative  spy."     Others 

that   I   was  an  oracle  worth   "  rigging."     And  the  Irish   and 

Radical  Press    questioning   my    impartiality,  I    published  this 

letter : 

"  To  the  Editor  of  the  '  Manchester  City  Netvs.' 

"  Sir, — My  attention  has  been  called  to  a  paragraph  in  your  issue  of  July 
23rd,  stating  that  I  am  a  Conservative,  an  assertion  which  has  highly 
amused  those  who  know  me  well,  for  I  am  one  of  the  strongest  of  Eadicals 
in  some  things  and  the  hottest  of  Tories  in  others.  I  earnestly  advocate 
the  claims  of  the  working  man,  and  sometimes  I  feel  myself  a  Whig  of  the 
old  school.  Whether  I  am  a  Tory,  a  Liberal  or  a  Kadical,  troubles  me 
very  little,  but  as  you  seem  to  take  a  kind  interest  in  my  political  opinions 
I  should  have  preferred  you  to  have  styled  me  an  Independent,  which  I 
understand  means  nothing. 

"  Harry  Furniss. 

"  Garrick  Club,  London." 

But  neither  "  Independent  "  nor  humorous  would  the  partisan 
Press  allow  me  to  be.  Certainly  I  was  applauded  by  some  for 
having  held  steadfastly  to  my  prophecy,  despite  temptations 
wliieli  would  have  made  Cassandra  succumb.  I  was  flattered 
l)y  being  held  up  as  an  exception  among  the  prophets.  From 
^Ir.  Gladstone  to  i\Ir.  T.  P.  O'Connor  politicians  had  prophesied 
and  were  hopelessly  wide  of  the  mark.  Mr,  Chamberlain, 
speaking  at  Birmingham  that  week,  said,  "  The  gravity  of  the 
weight  V  man  of  tlie  House  of  Commons,  gentlemen,  is  a  thing 
to  which  tliere  is  no  parallel  in  the  world,"'  and  oh!  so  serious! 


PA RLIAMEXTAR Y   COXFESSIOXS. 


211 


THK    GOVERNMENT   BENCH — BEFORE   HOME    RULE. 
A  rough  Sketch  made  in  the  House. 

Mr.  W.  E.  Forster.  Mr.  Gladstone.        Mr.  John  Bright. 

Liird  E.  Fitzraaurice.        Lord  Hartington. 

"  Prophets — at  any  rate  political  prophets — are  chiefly  distin- 
guished from  other  people  by  being  always  dull  and  nearly  always 
wrong.  To-day,  however,  appears  a  brilliant  exception  to  tlie 
almost  universal  rule,"  wrote  one  paper,  and  yet  continued, 
"Mr.  Furniss  is  simjjly  within  his  own  ground  as  one  of  the 
shrewdest  and  best  trained  of  living  observers,  when  he  describes 
the  newly-elected  House  of  Commons  as  thoroughly  discontented 
with  itself.  But  we  wish  that  Mr.  Furniss  had  carried  his 
prediction  into  the  regions  of  counsel,  and  had  been  able  to 
read  in  '  Mr.  Gladstone's  collars,'  or  in  the  '  unknown  quantity 
of  Sir  William  Harcourt's  chins,'  and  whatever  else  serves  him 
for  his  Stars,  what  is  to  be  the  outcome  of  a  situation  in  whicli 
no  party  is  al)le  to  obtain  a  working  majority.  If  Mr,  Furniss 
is  right,  the  question  of  '  how  is  the  Queen's  Government  to  be 
carried  on  \ '  will  assume  a  practical  importance  which  it  never 
had  before  ;  and  unless  he  himself,  as  a  thoroughly  non-party 
man,  can  be  induced  to  undertake  the  formation  of  an  adminis- 
tration of  similarly  fortunate  persons,  one  does  not  see  what  is 

p  2 


212  (JOSFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

to  be  clone.     Party  govei-nmeiit  is  Ijased  upon  big  majorities 

it  is  Avitliin  measurable  distance  of  breaking]:;  down  altoofether 

unless  tlie  country  will   make  up   its  mind  to  stand  no  more 

nonsense,  and  to  prefer  what  is  really  a  party  to  a  conglomerate 

of  fads  and  factions." 

1  was  beginning  to  feel  like  a  man  wlio  had  started  a  story 

and  forgotten  the  point  of  it.     The  only  "  comic  relief"  was  the 

following  note  from  the  Editor  of  Punch  : 

"  21st  July,  1892. 
"  Vates  et  Vox  Stcllarum. 

"Dear  H.  F., — 'Respectability  and  aspirants.'  Didn't  you  squirm 
at  the  misprint?  Is  that  setter-up-of-type  still  alive?  Je  m'en  doute. 
The  reference  to  Harcourt's  chins  will  (jet  you  liked  very  much.  You  dated 
it  from  the  Garrick,  but  you  didn't  put  the  time  of  night  when  you  wrote  it. 
'  P.S.'— Po.s-^  Siippeml,  eh? 

"  Farewell,  O  Prophet ! — but  '  why  didn't  you  say  so  before  ?  ' 
"  Allah  il  Allah  Ari  Furniss  is  His  Prophet ! 

"  Yours  ever, 

"F.  C.  B. 

"  Advt. — '  LIKA  JOKO  ' !  Parhamentary  Prophet ! !  Prophecies  sent  out 
on  shortest  notice.     Terms, .     Reduction  on  taking  a  quantity." 

Yes!  I  did  squirm  at  the  misprint,  which,,  however,  w^as 
rectified  in  the  next  issue  : 

"A  Parliamentary  Prophecy. — In  Mr.  Harry  Furniss's  letter  under  this 
title  in  the  Times  of  yesterday  the  word  '  aspirates '  should  be  read  instead 
of  '  aspirants  '  in  the  following  passage  :  '  The  Labour  representatives  feel 
mischievous  and  happy — they  are  the  heroes  of  the  hour — and,  although 
the  members  of  the  Labour  Party  have  hitherto  been  nonentities  in  the 
House,  they  will  probably  l)e  '  named '  several  times  in  the  future.  But 
Parliament  is  a  refrigerator  for  red-hot  rhetoric,  and  such  members  will, 
in  time,  find  respectability  and  aspirants,  and  grow  dull." 

I  wish  I  had  followed  the  example  of  Mr.  John  Morley,  who 
announced  a  couple  of  months  before  the  election  that  he  had 
written  down  his  General  Election  tip  and  placed  it  in  a  sealed 
envelope  ;  l>ut  so  fiir  as  I  have  heard,  he  never  risked  his  reputa- 
tion f(jr  pr()})hecy — he  refrained  from  puljlishing  the  secret. 
That  grave  and  weighty  right  hon.  gentleman  scored  as  the 
humorist,  and  i  failed  as  a  prophet  in  my  second  attemi)t. 


IIEDUCTIOX    OF   ONE   OF   MY   PARLIAMENTARY   PAGES   IN   I'UXCH. 


CHAPTER  VI [. 

"  PUXCH." 

Two  Punch  Editors — Punch's  Hump — My  First  Punch  Dinner — Charles 
Keene — "  Eobert  " — W.  H.  Bradbury — du  Maurier — "  Kiki" — A  Trip 
to  the  Place  of  his  Birth  —  He  Hates  Me  —  A  Practical  Joke  — 
du  Maurier's  Strange  Model — No  Sportsman — Tea — Appollinaris — 
My  First  Contribution  —  My  Eecord  —  Parliament  —  Press  Gallery 
Official  — I  Feel  Small— The  "Black  Beetle  "  —  Professor  Eogers— 
Sergeant-at-Arms'  Koom — Styles  of  Work — Privileges — Dr.  Percy — 
I  Sit  in  the  Table — The  Villain  of  Art— The  New  Cabinet — Criticism 
- — Punch's  Historical  Cartoons — Darwen  MacNeill — Scenes  in  the 
Lobby  —  A  Technical  Assault — John  Burns's  "Invention" — John 
Burns's  Promise — John  Burns's  Insult — The  Lay  of  Swift  MacNeill — 
The  Truth — Sir  Frank  Lockwood  —  "Grand  Cross"- — Lockwood's 
Little  Sketch — Lockwood's  Little  Joke  in  the  House — Lockwood's 
Little  Joke  at  Dinner — Lewis  Carroll  and  Punch — Gladstone's  Head 
—  Sir  William's  Portrait  —  Ciphers — Eeversion  —  Punch  at  Play — 
Three  Punch  Men  in  a  Boat — Squaring  up — Two  Pins  Club — Its  One 
Joke — Its  One  Horse — Its  Mystery — Artistic  Duties — Lord  Eussell — 
Furious  Eiding — Before  the  Beak — Burnand  and  I  in  the  Saddle — 
Caricaturing  Pictures  for  Punch — Art  under  Glass — Arthur  Cecil — 
My  Other  Eye  —The  Eidicvile  that  Kills — Eed  Tape — Punch  in  Prison — 
I  make  a  Mess  of  it — Waterproof — "  I  used  your  Soap  two  years  ago  " 
— Charles  Keene — Charles  Barber — Punch's  Advice — Punch's  Wives. 


HE  first  representative  of  Mr.  Punch  with 
whom  I  came  into  contact  was  the  late 
Tom  Taylor,  at  tliat  period  the  tenant 
of  the  editorial  chair.  To  this  meeting 
I  have  referred  on  a  previous  page, 
when  I  mentioned  that  Mr.  Taylor  had 
just  returned  from  the  wilds  of  Conne- 
mara  and  strongly  advised  me  to  make 
some  explorations  in  that  little-known  district  for  the  purpose  of 
making;  sketches  of  the  "  oenus  homo  indigenous  to  the  soil," 


21G 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


wliicli  I  did  a  week  or  so  prior  to  my  setting  foot  in  the  busy 
haunt  of  men  on  murky  Thames. 

Tom  Taylor  was,  I  believe,  one  of  the  best  of  men,  and  the 
possessor  of  one  ot"  the  kindest  hearts;  but  although  he  certainly 
professed  to  take  an  interest  in  me  (probably  owing  to  the  fact 
that  it  was  to  a  relative  of  mine  that  he  was  indebted  for  his 
tirst  introduction  to  literature),  the  fact  remains  that  whenever 
I  sent  him  a  sketch  I  used  to  receive  one  of  his  extraordinary 

hieroglyphical  missives 
supposed  to  be  a  note 
courteously  declining  my 
efforts,  notwithstanding 
that  I  was  often  Hattered 
although  not  enriched  by 
subsequently  seeing  the 
subjects  of  them  appear  re- 
drawn under  another  name 
in  the  pages  of  Punch. 

It  was  not  until  Tom 
Taylor  had  passed  away 
that  Mr.  Punch  would 
deisrn  to  give  me  a  chance. 
I  had  then  been  seven  years 
in  London  hard  at  work  for 
the  leading  magazines  and 
illustrated  papers,  and  I 
may  truly  say  that  my 
work  Avas  the  only  introduction  I  ever  had  to  Mr.  Burnand. 
When  I  first  entered  the  goal  of  my  boyish  ambition — that  is 
to  say,  the  editorial  sanctum  of  Mr.  Punch — I  had  never  met  the 
gentleman  who  for  a  number  of  years  afterwards  was  destined 
to  be  my  chief,  and  I  fully  expected  to  see  the  editor  turn  round 
and  receive  me  witli  that  look  of  irrepressible  humour  and  in 
that  habitually  jocose  style  which  1  had  so  often  heard  described. 
I  looked  in  vain  for  the  geniality  in  the  editor's  glance,  and 
tlit-re  was  a,  remarkably  com[)lete  absence  of  the  jocose  in  the 
shai'[),  irrital)le  words  which  he  addressed  to  me. 


AGK    2('),    WIIEX    I   FIRST   WORKED   FOR 

Fmm  <i  riwto  %]  PUNCH.  [C.  WatUns. 


''FUNCHr 


2ir 


"  Really,"  said  lie,  "  tins  is  too  bad  !  I  wrote  to  you  to  meet 
me  at  the  Surrey  Theatre  last  night,  and  you  never  turned  up. 
We  go  to  press  to-day,  and  the  sketclies  are  not  even  made." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  I  replied,  "  for  I  never  heard 
from  you  in  my  life,  aud  I  don't  think  that  you  ever  saw  me  before."' 

"  But  surely  you  are  Mr. \  "   (a  contributor  who  had  been 

drawing  for  Punch  for  some  weeks).     "  Are  you  not  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  My  name  is  Furniss,  and  I  understood  that 
you  wanted  to  see  me." 

This  was  in  1880,  and  from  that  period  up  to  the  time  of  my 
resignation  from  the  staff  of 
Punch  I  certainly  do  not  think 
that  I  have  ever  seen  Burnand's 
face  assume  such  a  threatening 
and  offended  expression  as  it 
wore  that  day. 

I  was  then  twenty  -  six. 
Strange  to  say,  Charles  Keene 
and  George  du  Maurier  were 
exactly  the  same  age  when 
they  first  made  their  debit  t  in 
Punch,  but  not  yet  invited  to 
"join  the  table." 

As  I  was  leaving  my  house  one  summer  evening  a  few  years- 
afterwards,  the  youngest  member  of  my  family,  who  was  being 
personally  conducted  up  to  bed  by  his  nurse,  enquired  where 
I  was  going. 

"  To  dine  with  Mr.  Punch,"  I  replied. 

"  Oh,  haven't  you  eaten  all  his  hump  yet,  papa  ?  It  does  last 
a  long  time  !  "  And  the  little  chap  continued  his  journey  to  the 
arms  of  Morpheus,  evidently  quite  concerned  about  his  father's 
long-drawn-out  act  of  cannibalism. 

The  first  feast  to  which  I  was  bidden  was  not  one  of  the 
ordinary  or  office  description,  but  a  banquet  given  at  the  "Albion  " 
Tavern,  in  the  City,  on  the  3rd  of  January,  1881,  to  celebrate 
the  installation  of  Mr.  Burnand  as  the  occupant  of  the  editorial 
chair.     And  on  my  invitation  card   I   first  sketched   my  new 


MY   FIRST   MEETIXG   WITH   THE 
EDITOR   OF   PUNCH. 


2  IS 


COXFESSJOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


friends,  tlie  Punch  staff,  and  a  few  of  the  outside  contributors 
Avho  were  present,  conspicuous  among  whom  was  George 
Augustus  Sala,  the  honoured  stranger  of  the  evening.  That 
lie  shouhi  be  so  struck  me  as  peculiar,  for  it  was  an  open  secret 
that  Sala  wrote  and  illustrated  that  famous  attack  (nominally  by 
Alfred  Buun),  "A  Word  with  Pinicli,'"  a  most  vulgar,  vicious, 
and  personal  insult  which  had  given  much  offence  years  before ; 
a  clear  proof  of  j\lr.  Punch's  forgiving  nature.     That  grand  old 


'k-.xi*^      10,    Bourern    Si'rttt,    Jan.   3rd,    »««'<■,        Jl    \f 


31Y   FIRST   INVITATIOX   FROM  PUNCH. 

man  of  Puncli,  Tenniel,  I  made  an  attempt  to  sketch  as  he  was 
"  saying  a  few  words,"  but  on  this  particular  occasion  it  was  my 
vis-d-vis  Charles  Kcene  who  interested  me  more  than  any  other 
person  present.  He  wore  black  kid  gloves  and  never  removed 
them  all  during  dinner — that  puzzled  me.  Why  he  wore  them 
]  cannot  say.  1  never  saw  him  wearing  gloves  at  table  again, 
or  even  out  of  doors.  Then  he  was  in  trouble  with  his  cigar, 
and  finally  1  noticed  that  he  threw  it  under  the  table  and  stamped 
u})on  it,  and  produced  his  favourite  dirty  Charles  the  First  pipe, 
the   diminutive   bowl   of  which  he   filled  continually  with  what 


''PUJVCH:'  219 


smokers   call  "dottles."      He   was   then,   apparently  perfectly 
happy,  as  indeed  he  always  looked  when  puffing  away  at  his 


Cj2au2^ 


i    "^A^r^    ^ 


A    LETTER    FROM   CHARLES   KEEXE,    OBJECTING   TO   AX 
EDITOR    INTERVIEWIXG    HIM. 

antique  clay.     Years  afterwards,  when  sketching  a  background 
for  a  Punch  drawing  in  the  East  End,  I  noticed  some  labourers 


220 


COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


rctuniino-  from  workiiio-  at  excavations,  lauoliino-  over  sometliins: 
they  had  found  in  tlie  ground  ;  it  was  a  splendid  specimen  of 
the  Charles  clay  pipe,  longer  than  any  I  have  seen.  I  bought  it 
from  them  to  present  to  Keene,  l»ut  he  was  ill  then,  and  soon 
after  the  oreatest  master  of  black  and  white  England  ever 
produced  had  passed  away. 

After  Keene  the  strangest  character  present  Avas  Mr.  Deputy 
Bedford — "Robert"'  in  the  pages  oi  Punch — an  undertaker  in 
the  City,  and  one  of  the  most  humorous  men  within  its  boundary. 
I  recollect  introducing  my  wife  to  him  at  some  function  at  the 

Mansion  House — not  as 
Robert,  but  as  Mr.  Deputy 
Bedford.  She  expressed 
her  pleasure  at  meeting 
one  of  the  City  dignitaries, 
and  he  offered  to  show  her 
over  the  treasures  in  the 
Mansion  House.  "There's 


a  fine    statue    for 


you 


110  H  HUT. 


Don't  know  who  did  it, 
but  we  pMd  a  thousand 
pounds  for  it.  And  that 
one  over  there,  which 
weiohs  half  a  ton  less, 
cost  twice  as  much.  Oh  ! 
the  pictures  are  worth 
something,  too.  That  portrait  cost  £800  ;  I  don't  know  what 
that  one  cost,  but  the  frame  is  cheap  at  £20.  Yes,  fine  gold 
plate,  isn't  it  ?  Old  designs  'i  Yes,  but  old  or  new,  boiled  down^ 
I  should  think  £80,000  wouldn't  be  taken  for  the  j)ile  !  "  And 
so  on,  and  so  on,  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye  and  an 
excellent  imitation  of  what  outsiders  consider  City  men  to  be. 

My  caricature  of  the  genial  E.  h.  S.  (Saml)ourne)  is  not  good,, 
but  quite  as  kind  as  Sala's  remarks  were  on  that  occasion  in 
chaftinoSambourne  for  turnino-  ui)  in  mornino-  costume.  In  the 
bottom  riglit-hand  corner  of  the  card  is  a  note  of  the  late  Mr. 
W.  n.   Bradbury,  one  of  the  proprietors  of  Punch,  the  kindest 


GEOKGE   DU  MAURIER. 

Ffo-m.  a  pen  and  ink  drairinij  hy  himself,  the  property  of  the  Author. 


and  the  best  host,  the  biggest-hearted  and  most  genial  friend,  I 
ever  worked  for.  He  has  his  eye,  I  notice,  on  a  gentleman 
making  an  impromptu  speech — the  sensation  of  tiie  evening — - 
referred  to  by  Mr.  M.  H.  Spielmann  in  "  The  History  of  Punch.'" 
Next  to  that  irrepressible  orator  is  Mr.  Lucy,  "  Toby,  M.P.,  as 
I  saw  him  first. 

I  note  on  this  card  an  attempt  to  sketch  du  Maurier,  the 
"Thackeray  of  the  pencil."  By  the  way,  I  was  certainly  the 
first  to  apply  th[it  term  to  him — in  my  first  lecture,  "  Art  and 
Artists."  He  was  some  distance  from  me  at  the  bancpiet  when 
I  made  these  notes. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  I  really  never  had  a  seat  allotted  to 
me  at  the  Punch  table.  I  always  sat  in  du  ^Maurier's,  except  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  he  came  to  the  dinner,  wlien  I  moved 
up  one.  It  was  always  a  treat  to  have  du  Maurier  at  "  the 
table."  He  was  by  far  and  away  the  cleverest  conversationalist 
of  his  time  I  ever  met, — his  delightful  repartees  were  so  neat 
and  effective,  and  his  daring^  cliaff  and  his  criticisms  so  bri^T^ht 
and  refreshing. 

For  some  extraordinary  reason  du  Maurier  was  known  to  the 
Punch  men  as  "  Kiki,"  a  friendly  sobriquet  which  greeted  him 
when  he  first  joined,  and  refers  to  his  nationality.  In  the  same 
way  as  an  English  schoolboy  calls  out  "Froggy  "to  a  French- 
man, his  friends  on  the  Punch  staff  called  him  Kiki,  suggested 
by  the  Frenchman's  peculiar  and  un-English  art  of  self-defence. 

Du  Maurier  took  very  little  interest  in  the  discussions  at  the 
table  ;  in  fact,  he  resented  informal  debate  on  the  subject  of  the 
cartoon  as  an  interruption  to  his  conversation,  although  he  once 
suggested  a  cartoon  which  will  always  rank  as  one  of  the  most 
historical  hits  of  Mr.  Punch — a  cartoon  of  the  First  Napoleon 
warning  Napoleon  the  Third  as  he  marches  out  to  meet  the 
Germans  in  the  War  of  1870. 

At  times  he  might  enter  into  the  artistic  treatment  of  the 
cartoon ;  and  I  reproduce  a  sketch  he  did  on  the  back  of  a 
menu  to  explain  some  idea  in  connection  with  the  cartoon  which 
appeared  the  following  week  in  Punch. 

Du  ]\raurier's  extremely  clever   conversation  struck  me  the 


'224 


COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


moment  I  joined  the  staff  of  Punch.  As  I  went  part  of  his  way 
to  Hampstead,  we  sometimes  shared  a  cal),  and  in  one  of  these 
journeys  I  mentioned  my  conviction  that  he,  in  my  mind,  was  a 
great  deal  more  than  a  liumorous  artist,  and  if  he  would  only 
tnke  \\\>  the  pen  seriously  the  world  would  be  all  the  more 
indebted  to  him.  He  told  me  that  Mr.  James  had  for  some  time 
said  nice  tliino;s  of  a  similar  character. 

About  ten  days  afterwards  I  received  a  letter  saying  that  my 
conversation  had  had  an  effect  upon  him,  and  that  he  was  start- 
ing his  first  novel.  So  perhaps  the  world  is  really  indebted  to 
me,  indirectly,  for  the  pleasure  of  reading  "Peter  Ibbetson  "  and 
"  Trilby ;  "    the  fact   being   that    he    had,  with    Burnand    and 

myself,  just  visited  Paris 
— the  first  time  he  had 
set  foot  in  the  gay  city 
^'  since  his  youth.  Many 
thinors  he  saw  had  ini- 
pressed  him,  and  "Peter 
Ibbetson  "  was  the  result. 
How  interestincj  it  was  to 
watch  him  in  Paris,  the 
jjlace  of  his  birth,  stand- 
ing, the  ideal  type  of 
a  Frenchman  himself, 
smiling  and  as  amused  as  a  boy  at  his  own  countrymen  and 
women.  "  So  very  un-English,  you  know !  '^  Then,  as  we 
drove  about  Paris,  he  stood  up  in  the  carriage,  excitedly  showing 
us  places  familiar  to  him  in  his  young  da}'s,  and  greatly  amused 
us  by  pointing  out  no  fewer  than  three  different  houses  in 
which  he  was  born  !  AVe  three  were  the  guests  of  Mr.  Staat 
Forbes  at  Fontainebleau  during  the  same  trip,  and  du  Manner's 
sketches  of  our  pleasant  experiences  on  that  occasion  appear  in 
Punch,  under  the  heading  "  Souvenir  de  Fontainebleau,"  in 
three  numbers  in  October,  1886.  In  the  drawino-  of  our 
al  fresco  diniici',  "Smith""  is  our  host,  I  am  "Brown,"- 
du  Mauricr   "Jones,"  and  ^Ir.  Burnand  "Robinson." 

'Three  A'cars  afterv.ards  du  ]\laurier  re-visited  Paris  with  most 


SUGGKSTION    BY   DU   MAURIEIl    FOR 
PUyCH  CAIITOON. 


"PUXCHy 


225 


of  the  staff  to  see  the  Paris  Exhibition,  1889.  In  ray  sketch 
"  En  Route — ]Mr.  Punch  at  Lunch,"  du  Maurier  is  speaking  to 
Mr.  Anstey  Guthrie,  who,  "  for  this  occasion  only,"  called  du 
Maurier  the  Marquis  d'Ampstead. 

Du  Maurier  had  a  little  of  the  green-eyed  monster  in  his 
bosom,  although  he  lived  to  laugli  at  all  when  he  himself  became 
the  greatest  success  of  any  man  in  his  sphere. 

When  I  made  my  hit  with  my  Exhibition  of  the  "  Artistic 
Joke,"  du  Maurier,  to  my  surprise,  turned  sharply  round  to  me 
one  night  in  the  cab  and  said,  "  My  dear  Furniss,  I  must  be 
honest  with  you—  I  hate  you,  I  loathe  you,  I  detest  you!  " 

"  Thanks,  aw- 
fully, my  dear 
fellow!  But 
why  '{ " 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said, 
"  your  success  is 
too  great.  When 
I  get  the  return 
you  send  me  in 
the  morning, 
showing  me  the 
number  of  people 
that  have  been  to 
your  Exhibition, 
the  tremendous  takings  at  the  turnstiles,  the  number  of  albums 
subscribed  for,  the  number  of  pictures  you  have  sold,  I  cannot 
work.  I  go  on  to  Hampstead  Heath  to  walk  off  my  jealousy; 
when  I  come  in  to  lunch  I  find  your  first  telegram,  telling  me 
you  have  made  £80  that  morning.  I  walk  out  again,  and 
looking  down  upon  London,  although  I  shake  my  fist  at  the 
whole  place,  my  wrath  is  for  you  alone.  I  come  in  to  tea  to 
find  another  telegram — you  have  made  £lOO !  How  can  I  sit 
down  and  scratch  away  on  a  piece  of  paper  when  you  are 
m'akino;  a  fortune  in  a  week  ? " 

This  nearly  took  my  breath  away. 

"  My  dear  du  Maurier,"  I  replied,  "  I  feel  hurt — seriously, 

C. — VOL.   I.  Q 


4nr>. 

^^           /     ,        *   3*    '\ 

,  :>: 'i  ^v' 

'  &                           ^"> 

.-■.v'      *.  ■■  '        < 

•;fW 

M   a. 

t  » 

^^^^EHv  '^^jsBBm| 

HP<e^^ 

^  -Wk 

\*;.    ^^4^^ 

^'^  ■'  m 

"  - ; 

'm[i 

DU  MAUKIER's   SOUVflNIR   DE    FOXTAINEBLEAU. 

From  ''Punch." 


22G  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CAUWATUUIST. 

irrevocably.     I   sliall   always   feel  degraded  in  your  eyes.     Of 
course  you  are  the  victim  of  a  practical  joke." 

Du  Maurier  pulled  from  his  pocket  one  of  my  supposed  returns. 
It  was  an  imitation  of  printing,  with  the  amounts  filled  in. 
"  This  is  the  kind  of  thing  I  get  every  morning." 

"  Why,  of  course,  it  is  written,  not  printed.  That  is  the  work 
of  the  irrepressible  practical  joker.  But  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence, du  Maurier  ;  if  you  thought  that  I  would  be  such  a  cad 
as  to  send  you  these  returns,  I  cannot  see  how  we  can  ever 
be  great  friends." 

Althouofh  as  du  Maurier  believed  for  a  time  I  had  the  neces- 
sary  vulgarity  of  the  "  bloated  millionaire,"  to  use  his  own  words, 
we  were  never  much  more  than  acquaintances — although  very 
pleasant  acquaintances — and  I  believe  du  Maurier  reciprocated 
the  kind  feeling  I  had  towards  him.  Du  Maurier  rarely  forgave 
a  satirical  thrust  at  his  expense.  His  dislike  for  Mr.  Whistler  on 
this  account  is  well  known  to  all  the  early  readers  of  "  Trilby," 
and  he  often  related  with  unconcealed  glee  a  remark  he  once 
made  to  Whistler.  It  appears  they  had  not  met  for  a  long  period, 
during  which  du  Maurier  with  his  satirical  pictures  on  the 
aesthetic  craze,  published  in  Puncli,  and  Whistler  with  his 
^'symphonies"  and  "harmonies"  on  canvas,  exhibited  in  the 
Law  Courts,  had  both  increased  their  reputation. 

"  Hallo,  Kiki !  "  cried  Whistler.  "  I'm  told  that  your  work  in 
Punch  is  the  making  of  some  men.  You  have  actually  invented 
Tomkins !  Why,  he  never  would  have  existed  but  for  you  1 
Ha!  ha!  how  on  earth  did  you  do  it?" 

"  Look  here,  Jimmy,  if  you  don't  look  out,  by  Jove,  I'll 
invent  you !  " 

How  Kiki — du  Maurier — carried  out  his  threat  in  "  Trilby," 
and  what  resulted  from  it,  all  the  world  knows. 

By  the  way,  the  mention  of  "  Trilby  "  reminds  me  of  a  story 
about  j\Ir.  du  Manner's  own  Trilby  which  is  perhaps  worth 
recording.  \h\  ^Maurier  for  some  years  lived  on  the  top  of 
Hampstead  Heath,  rather  inaccessible  for  models.  But  more 
than  once  friends  asked  him  to  take  a  sitting  from  some  lady  or 
another,  as  he,  drawing  fashionable  ladies,  was  different,  perhaps, 


''PUNcnr 


227 


from  painters  using  models  for  costumes  or,  as  du  Maurier  would 
say,  for  the  "  altogether."  In  this  way  a  model  was  introduced 
to  him,  and,  to  his  surprise,  she  drove  up  to  his  house  in  a  hansom, 
and  he  heard  her  askino;  one  of  the  servants  for  chancre  of  a 
sovereign  to  pay  the  cabman.  She  did  not  sit  very  well,  so 
after  a  short  time  Mr,  du  Maurier  told  her  that  he  only  drew 
from  models  for  part  of  the  day,  and,  rather  apologetically,  said  he 


PUNCH  STAFF   RETURNING   FROM   PARIS. 

{The  original  hangs  on  the  wall  of  Mr.  Punch'' s  dining  room.) 

of  course  did  not  pay  for  the  whole  of  the  usual  day's  sitting. 

And  she  said  : 

"  Oh,  thanks !  I  am  only  too  pleased  to  sit  for  a  short  time. 

But  would  you  kindly  ask   one  of  your  servants  to  fetch  me 

a  hansom  '? '' 

This  made  the  artist  more  than  ever  miserable,  and  he  said  : 
"  Excuse  me,  ])ut  perhaps  you  are  not  aware  we  only  pay  a 

modest  amount  for  sitters  ;  in  fact,  I  generally  pay  five  shillings 

for  two  hours — aw " 

(i  2 


228  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  really  going  to  give  me 
five  shillings  ?  Oh,  how  kind  of  you  !  It  will  just  pay  half  my 
cab  fare  home.  I  didn't  know  I  was  going  to  be  so  lucky." 
And  she  vanished,  leaving  the  artist  more  bewildered  than 
ever. 

Some  time  afterwards,  in  Hyde  Park,  he  was  surprised  to  see 
a  carriage  beautifully  appointed  pulled  up  to  where  he  was 
standing,  and  a  lady  lean  out  and  say  : 

"  I  have  never  seen  you  before  to  thank  you  for  your  kind- 
ness in  allowing  me  to  sit  for  you.  I  was  so  anxious  to  see 
what  a  studio  was  like.  Thanks,  awfully ;  you  must  let  me 
call  again." 

Du  Maurier  liad  the  faculty  of  unaffected  fun,  he  had  also 
a  feeling  for  caricature  in  portraiture,  but  he  did  not  care  to 
exercise  either  to  any  extent  in  Punch.  I  recollect  Sir  Henry 
Thompson — the  celebrated  physician — showing  me  a  copy  of 
a  book  he  had  written,  in  which  he  speaks  of  hospital  life  in 
London.  Du  Maurier  had  studied  in  a  London  hospital  when 
he  first  arrived  in  England,  and  he  wrote  to  Sir  Henry,  then 
a  stranger  to  him,  to  ask  him  if  the  wretch  in  his  book  who 
wheeled  off"  the  remains  of  the  corpses  from  the  dissecting-room 
was  the  same  man  he  knew  and  loathed  years  ago.  The  sketch 
accompanying  this  query  Sir  Henry  had  pasted  in  the  book  in 
triumph.      "  There  is  the  man,"  he  said,  "  to  the  life  I  " 

At  dinner  du  Maurier  ate  sparingly,  drank  moderately,  and 
smoked  cigarettes.  He  avoided  champagne,  preferring  the  wine 
of  his  country — claret ;  and  after  dinner,  in  place  of  cofiee,  he 
had  a  huge  breakfast-cup  of  tea,  and,  like  the  soap  advertisement 
boy,  he  was  not  happy  till  he  got  it. 

Mentioning  an  advertisement  suggests  that  it  may  interest 
some  to  know  du  Maurier  drew  the  label  for  a  most  popular 
mineral  water.  It  is  safe  to  predict  that  not  one  person  in  the 
tens  of  thousands  looking  at  it  yearly  would  connect  du  Maurier 
with  it.  It  is  that  elaborate  and  rather  inartistic  design  on 
Appollinaris  water,  for  wliicli  he  received  fifty  guineas  from 
his  friend — one  of  the  proprietors.  Anyone  following  his  work 
in  Puiicli    must   have   noticeil  that    he  was    a   hypochondriac. 


JAPA^'ESE   STYLE  :   A   BALLET   FROM  PUNCH. 


"PUNCHY  231 

Hypochondriasis  was  a  disease  with  him,  lie  was  always  thinking 
of  his  health,  and  I  fear  that  sudden  bursst  of  popularity 
following  the  success  of  "  Trill )y,"  in  place  of  ])racing  liim  up, 
made  him  dwell  somewhat  more  upon  his  state  of  health,  and 
hastened  the  end. 

I  recollect  his  telling  me  years  ago  he  was  advised  to  take 
horse  exercise  for  his  health's  sake,  so  he  hired  a  hack  and 
started  in  the  direction  of  Richmond  Park.  Arriving  at  the 
well-known  windmill,  and  l)efore  descending  the  beautiful 
slopes  on  the  other  side,  he  took  out  his  watch  and,  opening 
the  case,  put  out  his  tongue  to  see  what  effect  the  ride  had  had 
on  his  health.  The  horse  moved,  and  he  found  himself  the  next 
moment  on  the  ground. 

He  gave  up  horse  exercise  after  that ! 

My  first  contribution  to  Punch  appeared  in  the  number  dated 
October  30th,  1880.  "Punch,"  as  a  policeman,  commanded 
the  removal  of  the  newly-erected  "  Griffin "  in  the  place  of 
Old   Temple    Bar  :     "  Take    away   that 

Bauble!"     The  much-abused  "  Griffin  "         ^^-^^^2^  /^e-<i4^ 
is  the  work    (but   after    the   design    of     u  ^^^^^Sni^^ 
Horace  Jones)  of  an  old  friend  of  mine,  ""^"^^/(^ 9^*/>^(, 

the   late    C.    B,    Birch,   E.A.,    a   clever 

sculptor  and  a  capital  fellow.  He  sent  me  "  his  mark "  of 
appreciation,  but  I  may  say  he  was  the  last  man  to  use  the 
instrument  of  torture  suggested  by  his  name. 

I  then  "did  the  theatres"  with  the  editor — no  mistake  this 
time — and  a  very  pleasant  time  it  was.  My  first  "  social  " 
drawing  appeared  in  the  second  number  in  the  following 
Deceml)er,  illustrating  Scotch  "  wut  "  manuftictured  in  London. 

Two  Scotch  rustics  outside  an  eating-house.  One  points  to 
a  card  in  the  window  on  which  is  "  AVelsh  Rabbit,  6d." 

Hungry  visitor  (ignorant  of  the  nature  of  this  particular 
delicacy)  :  "  Ah,  Donal,  mon,  we  ken  weel  hev  the  Pawbit  fur 
saxpence.  AVe  ken  get  twa  Bawbees  fur  the  Skeen  when  we 
get  bock  to  Glasoiow  !  " 

The  Scotch  is  certainly  new,  if  the  joke  is  not. 

An  Irish  joke  followed,  and  then  in  the  Almanack  I  illustrated 


232 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


a  liit  at  the  style  of  ladies'  dress  of  the  period  ;  in  fact,  at  that 
time  I  drew  for  Punch  quite  a  numljcr  of  social  subjects  dealing 
with  the  aesthetic  craze.  Besides  illustrating  various  social 
suhjects  and  caricaturing  the  Academy  and  the  new  plays,  I  was 
illustrating  the  "  Essence  of  Parliament."    As  Mr.  M.  H.  Spielmann 


CHINESE    STYLE.      FllOM   A   DRAWING   ON  WOOD.      PUNCH. 


in  "The  History  of  PiUivli''  says  truly,  "1  romped  through 
Punclis  pages."  I  open  a  number  of  Punch  published  only 
eighteen  months  after  my  first  contril)utioii  appeared,  and  two 
years  previous  to  my  joining  the  staff,  and  find  no  fewer  than 
eleven  S('[)arate  sul)jects  from  my  ]»encil  ;  and  I  may  say  that 
up   to    tlie   last    1    probably   cuiitributed    more    work    to    Punch 


''PUNClir  233 

than  any  other  artist  ever  contributed  in  the  same  number  of 
years,  Leech  not  excepted.  I  do  not  claim  that  this  was 
wholly  due  to  artistic  merit,  but  to  a  business  one.  I  never 
refused  to  draw  a  subject  I  was  asked  to  do,  I  never  was  at  a 
loss  for  a  subject,  and  I  was  never  late.  It  was  to  this  facility 
I  owe  the  good  terms  on  which  the  editor  and  I  worked  so 
pleasantly  and  for  so  long.  Being  accustomed  to  work  at  high 
pressure  for  the  illustrated  papers  and  magazines  since  boyhood, 
I  confess  that  Punch  work  to  me  was  my  playtime. 

I  contributed  over  two  thousand  six  hundred  designs,  from  the 
smallest  to  the  largest  that  ever  appeared  in  its  pages  (the  latter 
were  published  in  the  Christmas  Numbers,  1890  and  1891),  and  I 
was  not  in  receipt  of  a  salary,  but  was  paid  for  each  drawing  at 
my  full  rate.  I  have  reason  to  think  I  drew  in  the  time  more 
money  from  Punch,  proportionately,  than  any  other  contributor 
in  its  history  in  a  like  period.  I  read  from  time  to  time 
accounts  of  the  remuneration  men  like  myself  receive.  Of 
course  these  statements  are  invariably  fiction,  as  in  fact  is 
nearly  everything  I  have  read  outside  Mr.  Spielmann's  careful 
analysis  of  Punch  concerning  myself  and  my  friends. 

I  deal  with  my  Parliamentary  confessions,  personal  and 
artistic,  in  other  chapters ;  I  shall  in  this  merely  touch  upon  a 
few  points  in  connection  with  Punch.  The  greater  portion  of 
my  Parliamentary  work,  however,  appeared  in  other  periodicals, 
but  it  is  probably  by  Punch  work  in  this  direction  most  of  my 
readers  identify  me.  I  was  fortunate,  in  the  twelve  3'ears  I 
represented  Punch  in  Parliament  with  the  pencil,  in  having 
the  exceptional  material  for  work  upon  Mr.  Gladstone  at  his 
most  interesting  period,  Parnell's  rise  and  fall,  Churchill's  rise 
and  fall,  Bradlaugh's  rise  and  fall,  and  a  host  of  others  strutting 
their  brief  hour  on  the  political  stage.  Where  are  they  now  ? 
Mr.  Chamljerlaiu  alone  interests  the  caricaturist.  Parliament 
itself  is  dull,  the  public  is  apathetic,  and  everything  appertaining 
to  politics  is  flat  and  unprofita})le.  Yet  as  far  back  as  1885, 
in  the  fioure  "Punch,"  I  asked  for  some  new  character,  the 
familiar  faces  were  getting  worked  out  ! 

I   had  attended  some  sessions  of  Parliament  l)efore   I  made 


234  COXFESSIOX.S    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

the  acquaintance  of  the  official  presiding  over  the  Press  Gallery. 
The  Press  Gallery  is,  as  all  know,  directly  over  the  Speaker. 
The  front  row  is  divided  into  little  boxes  where  the  representa- 
tives of  the  leading  ]iapers  sit.  The  others  are  seated  above 
them  against  the  wall.     These  members  of  the  Press  look  like 


FAMILIAR    FACES. 
Mr.  runch  {Cartooiiiatin-Chiif).  "Ob,  I  KNOW  ALL  Ton  Old  Hodela.     I  w*st  homb  New  'Cbaractbr  ' ! " 

a  row  of  aged  schoolboys  very  much  troubled  to  write  anything 
about  Parliament  to-day.  Their  monitor  sits  by  the  seat  near 
the  door,  which  in  former  days  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
Gallery. 

I   shall  never  forget  my  first  experience  of  this  Press  Gallery 
official.      He   was  big^  and  fat,  and   greasy;  in  evening  dress. 


'' punch:' 


235 


and  he  wore  a  real  gold  chain  with  a  badge  in  front  like  a  mayor 
or  sheriff.  He  awed  me — recollect  I  am  now  speaking  of  the 
day  I  attended  as  a  comparatively  new  boy,  and  I  trembled  in 
his  presence.  There  was  no  seat  vacant  except  the  one  next 
to  him.  He  sleeps !  Nervously  I  slip  into  the  seat.  He  wakes, 
and  looks  down  at  me. 

"  H'm  !       What  are   yon  ?  "   is  his  sleepy   remark. 

"  Punch,''  I  reply. 

"  Ticket  ? " 

"  Left  at  home." 

"  Brino;  it  next  time." 

"  Certainly,"  say  I,  re- 
lieved. He  slumbers  /  \^\  I  \  l\\(\(/ 
again.  I  strain  over  to 
see  who  is  speaking.  This 
wakes  the  gentleman  with 
the  real  gold  chain  again. 
He  gazes  down  upon  me. 
I  feel  smaller. 

"  What  are  you  ?  " 

"Punchr 

''Eh!    AVhere's ticket?" 

"Left  at  home." 

"  Bring  it  next  time. 
Saves  bother,  young 
fellow." 

"  Certainly,"  I  reply, 
and,  encouraged  by  his  familiarity,  I  venture  to  ask,  "Who  is 
that  speaking?"  I  just  got  the  question  out  in  time,  for  he  was 
dozinsj  off  again. 

"  New  Member,"  he  replied,  and,  half  dozing,  he  goes  on, 
more  to  himself  than  to  me  :  "  One  more  fool !  Find  his  level 
here  !  All  fools  here  !  Stufi'  you've  been  givin'  them  at  your 
College  Union.  Rubbish  !  Yer  perambulator's  waitin'  outside. 
Oh,  follow  yer  Dad  to  the  Upper  House,  an'  look  sharp  about  it." 
He  mumbles.  I  well  recollect  the  youthful  Member,  so  criti- 
cised, labouring  througli  his  maiden  speech.     The  eldest  son  of  a 


HE   SLEEPS. 


236 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


"  HERE,  I    SxVY,   WHAT   ARE   YOU  ?  " 


Peer,  with  a  rather  effeminate  face,  Saxon  fairness  of  complexion, 
and  with  an  apology  for  a  moustac^he,  it  struck  me  that  if 
petrified  he  would  do  very  well  as  a  dummy  outside  a  tailor's 

establishment.  Yet  this 
youthful  scion  of  a  noble 
line  has  a  good  record. 
He  carried  off  innumer- 
able prizos  at  Eton,  was 
a  double  first  at  Oxford, 
President  of  the  Union, 
and  a  fellow  of  his  college ; 
one  of  the  University 
Eight,  and  of  the  Eleven ; 
distinguished  at  tennis, 
racquets,  and  football ; 
hero  of  three  balloon 
ascents  ;  great  at  ama- 
teur theatricals  ;  a  writer  upon  every  possible  subject,  including 
theology,  for  the  leading  magazines  ;  member  of  sixteen  London 
clubs ;  married  a  titled 
heiress,  and  is  only 
thirty  years  of  age. 

Some  of  his  colleo;e 
friends  sit  in  the 
Strangers'  Gallery  to 
hear  their  late  President 
make  his  first  oreat 
effort  in  the  real  Parlia- 
ment. The  effect  dis- 
appoints them.  Their 
chnmpion  is  "funky." 
AVhen  the  Oxford  Eight 
were  behind  at  Barnes 
Bridge,  it  was  "  Dolly's  '' 
too't'therand  won  tlie  race 


PVXCH,       I    REPLIED. 


muscle  and  nerve  that  pulled  the  crew 
When  at  Lord's  the  match  was  nearly 

over,  and  the  Li^•llt  lilue.s  had  won  all  but  the  shouting,  "Dolly" 
went  in  last  man  and  rattled  up  fifty  in  lialf  an  hour  and  won 


'' punch:'  237 

the  match.  AVhen  at  the  Oxford  Union  he  spoke  upon  the  very- 
question  now  before  the  House — namely,  whether  a  tax  should 
be  imposed  upon  periwinkles — his  oratory  alone  turned  the  scale, 
and  gave  his  party  the  victory.  Yet  now  his  speech  upon  the 
periwinkle  problem  has  certainly  not  impressed  the  House.  Men 
listened  for  a  time  and  then  adjourned  to  dinner,  and  his  splendid 
peroration,  recognised  by  his  friends  as  the  same  which  he  had 
delivered  at  the  Oxford  Union,  failed  to  elicit  a  single  cheer. 

Curiosity,  however,  induced  his  supporters  to  remain  and  hear 
the  reply.  The  next  speaker  was  a  contrast  to  their  hero,  and  a 
titter  went  round  among  Dolly's  friends  in  the  Gallery.  He 
was  a  type  of  the  preaching  Member.  No  doubt  a  very  worthy 
soul,  but  hardly  an  Adonis  to  look  at,  nor  a  Cicero  to  listen  to. 
Still  he  is  sincere,  and  with  his  own  class  effective  ;  and  sincerity, 
after  all,  is  the  most  valuable,  and  I  may  add  the  most  rare, 
quality  in  the  composition  of  an  ordinary  Member  of  Parliament. 

My  neighbour,  the  Usher,  at  this  point  opens  his  left  eye, 
which  takes  in  at  a  glance  the  Opposition  side  of  the  House, 
and  breaks  out  in  this  style  : 

"  All  right,  little  'un  !  Keep  wot  yer  sayin'  till  Sunday.  Yer 
sermon's  sending  me  to  sleep.  Forcing  taxation  on  the  winks 
of  the  'ungry  Englishman  will  raise  the  country  to  revolt. 
Tommy  rot !     Here  endeth  the  first  lesson,  thank  goodness !  " 

The  soliloquising  official  rolls  off  his  seat  chuckling  along  the 
Gallery.  Envelopes  are  handed  to  him  by  the  reporters.  He 
rolls  back  to  the  door,  opens  it,  gives  the  copy  to  the  messengers 
waitino-  for  it,  and  rolls  back  once  more  into  his  seat.  In  doing; 
so  he  spies  me. 

I  feel  smaller. 

"  Here,  I  say,  what  are  you  ?  " 

"  Punch:' 

"  Where's  ticket  ? " 

"Left  at  home." 

"  H'm  !     Don't  forget  it  ao;ain." 

"  Certainly  not." 

I  say  nothing  more,  as  I  am  too  interested  in  his  running 
commentary  of  the  proceedings.     A.  grunt.     Shake  down  : 


tiSH 


COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


"  Old  Waddy,  is  it  ?     Another  sermon.      Blow  black  plaster. 
Tell  that  to  the  juries,  and  use  it  again  in  chapel.     Yer  a  good 
friend  to  us — get  a  count  soon.      Ah,   I   thought   so.      Joey 
Biggar  up  to  count  and  snufF." 
"  Have  a  pinch  ? "  he  said  to  me. 
"  Thanks."     I  sneeze. 

"  What  are  you  1 "  asked  the  man  of  the  golden  badge,  looking 
down  at  me.     I  met  his  query  as  before. 
Same  demand. 
Same  re[)ly. 
Same  promise. 

The  electric  bells  were  ringing  for  a  "count  out."     He  opened 

both  eyes  to  watch  if 
forty  Members  came  in. 
They  did ;  and  three 
times  forty. 

"  Torment  'em  !  Keep 
me  here  all  night,  I  see." 
Samuel  Banks  Waddy 
— Pleader,  Preacher, 
Parliamentarian  (as  he  is 
designated  in  a  work  on 
M.P.'s)  —  continues 
preaching.  He  is  fol- 
lowed by  the  Leader  of 
!"  the  House.      My  solilo- 

quising friend  continues : 
"  Ah,  Old  Morality — as  Lucy  calls  ye— up  at  last.  Move  the 
closure,  now  then,  that's  right ;  speak  of  yer  dooty  to  the  House 
and  Country.  Set  the  Eads  laughing,  shut  yer  own  mouth,  and 
sit  down.  Oh  lor !  'Ere's  the  Grand  Old  Muddler  up.  We're 
getting  'usky,  old  'un  ;  both  of  us  have  'ad  too  much  of  this  job. 
AVe're  very  much  alike,  Gladdy  and  me — both  great  eaters  and 
great  sleepers." 

]\Ir.  Gladstone  was  telling  the  House  all  about  black  plaster, 
and  gave  three  points  why  it  should  not  l)e  used  in  public 
hospitals.      With  the  third  })oint  he  landed  a  blow  at  Home  Eule, 


I    FEEL    SMALLER 


''PUXCHr  239 

and  his  ingenuity  in  doing  so  brought  forth  a  derisive  cheer 
from  the  Irish  1)enches,  which  roused  my  neighbour. 

1  looked  up  at  him  smiling,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Just  like  the 
Old  Parliamentary  Hand." 

"  What  are  you  % "  he  growled. 

"  PuncJC 

"  Ticket  ?  " 

Same  reply  and  promise. 

Appeased,  he  continued : 

"  Words,  words,  words — no  'ed  no  tail.  Oh,  of  course  you 
remember  the  introduction  of  white  plaster — 3rd  of  June,  1840 
—why  didn't  you  say  half-past  two  o'clock  '?  More  convincing. 
No  doubt  you  got  into  some  scrape  and  'ad  to  use  it.  Won't 
you  catch  it  from  the  old  woman  in  the  Gallery  when  you  get 
home  if  you  say  so  !  Can't 'ear  yer,  thank  goodness.  Scribblers 
will  take  down  any  rot  you  talk.  They  want  me,  I  suppose. 
Bio  wed  if  the  country  wants  you." 

Again  he  rolls  out  of  his  seat,  collects  the  reporters'  copy,  and 
gives  it  to  the  attendants. 

"  Who  are  you  ?     Ah,  Punch.     Don't  forget  yer  ticket." 

Again  he  dozes. 

"  'Icks  Beach  up !  'Ave  all  the  Board  of  Trade  chaps  up, 
capping  each  other.  Funny  thing — Board  of  Trade  chap  says 
anything,  all  the  Board  of  Traders  must  have  a  word  in. 
Same  with  Local  Government  Board — new  man  says  anything, 
old  'uns  put  in  a  word  for  theirselves,  just  to  keep  the  place 
warm  for  them  to  return.  Board  ! — I'm  bored — ^joke  there  for 
Lucy.  Thought  the  Irish  lot  couldn't  keep  quiet  much  longer. 
Tanner  up, — ought  to  know  more  about  plaster  than  politics. 
Rum  fellers,  these  doctors  in  the  House  ;  leave  their  patients  at 
'ome,  and  come  here  to  try  ours — 'nother  good  joke  for  Lucy — 
make  his  'air  stand  on  end.  Tanner  sticking  to  the  plaster — 
now  then,  young  Tories,  jeer  'im  down.  The  Doctor's  goin'  it. 
Order !  order !  That's  right,  Brand,  turn  'im  out, — wouldn't 
stand  'im  in  any  place  else.  City  Fowler's  bellowing, — scene 
a-brewing, — good  copy  for  these  quill-drivers," 

Dr.   Tanner  had   recited   some   harrowing^   tale  about   black 


240  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

plaster  l)eiiig  used  in  liis  native  town  by  a  hospital  surgeon  on 
the  scratched  face  of  some  old  woman  who  had  joined  "  the 
boys  "  in  a  street  fight,  although  she  protested  that  pink  suited 
her  complexion. 

"  It  was  a  base  Saxon  trick ! "  roared  the  infuriated  Member 
for  Cork  County.  "  On  a  par  with  the  mane,  dirty  doings  of 
puppets  and  spalpeens  like  the  Mimbers  opposite." 

"Order!  order!"  cried  the  Speaker.  "The  hon.  Member 
must  withdraw  that  expression." 

"  I'll  not  withdraw  anything  except  by  adding  that  they're 
all  liars  on  the  Tory  benches." 

"  The  hon.  Member  must  withdraw." 

The  Doctor  "  exits  "  with  a  flourish,  glares  at  the  Conservative 
benches  below  the  gangway,  and  hisses  at  them  : 

"  Better  order  a  ton  of  plaster,  for  you'll  want  it  after  I  meet 
ye  outside." 

Mr.  Labouchere  and  two  or  three  Irish  Members  rise  at  once. 
My  neighbour  sneers. 

"  Oh,  sit  down,  ye  rubbishy  lot !     Labby,— better  keep  yer 
jokes  for  yer  paper.     Bless  me  if  Conybeare  ain't  left  standing  I 
Now  for  an  hour  of  boredom." 
"  He  is  a  bore,"  I  remark. 

"  Yes,  I've  stood  Kenealy  and  Wharton,  but  this  bore  I 
can't.  I'll  chuck  it  up.  Kenealy  did  his  best  for  the  Claimant, 
and  was  amusing  at  times  ;  and  Wharton, — well,  he  had  good 
snufl",  and  his  hat  was  a  treat ;  but  this  Conybeare  is  a  bore  and 
nothino;  else." 
So  he  went  on. 

The  "  descendant  of  kings,"  Sir  William  Harcourt,  rose  to 
pulverise  Torydom  and  put  an  end  to  the  Government  and 
everything  in  general,  when  the  Speaker  rose  and  said  that  the 
question  before  the  House  was  whether  black  sticking-plaster 
could  be  used  in  public  ho8})itals. 

"  ( )h,  that's  right,  he  wants  putting  down  ;  too  much  of  the 
grand  Old  Bailey  style.  Make  yer  fortune  in  plush  and  knee 
breeches  as  a  })rize  flunkey  ;  i)Litform  stufl'  won't  do  for  us. 
What  are  you  '.  "      I  feel  smaller  ! 


''PUNCHr 


241 


"  Punch:' 

"  You  take  Harcourt  off  with  the  chins  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Shake  hands  !  " 

We  were,  friends  ever  afterwards. 

One  day  when  I  arrived, — actually  with  my  Gallery  ticket, — 
a  fresh  pleasant  official  sat  in  my  old  friend's  place,  wearing  his 
gold  chain  and  badge.  "  Should  this  meet  the  eye  "  of  his 
predecessor,  soliloquising  in  the  retirement  of  his  suburban 
home,  I  trust  it  will  not  disturb  the  serenity  of  his  well-earned 
repose,  for  he  was  a  capital  fellow,  and  I  can  answer  for  much 
good  sense  in  his  "  official 
utterances." 

If  a  politician  were 
not  a  caricature  by 
nature,  I  made  him  one. 
Mr.  Gladstone's  collar  I 
invented — for  the  same 
reason  a  journalistic 
friend  of  mine  invented 
Beaconsfield's  champagne 
jelly  —  for  "  copy." 
When  Members  suo- 
gested  nothing  new,  I 
turned  my  attention  to 
officials.  The  Sergeant- at- Arms  in  that  way  became  known  as 
the  "Black  Beetle." 

I  watched  Captain  Gosset  from  the  Press  Gidlery  walk  up 
the  floor  of  the  House  in  court  dress,  his  knee-breeches  showing 
otf  his  rather  bandy  legs,  elbows  akimbo,  and  curious  gait ;  his 
back  view  at  once  sugo-ested  the  beetle,  and  as  the  Black  Beetle 
he  was  known.  This,  I  was  assured,  gave  offence,  so  that  I  was 
rather  anxious  to  see  how  I  should  be  greeted  when  Professor 
Thorold  Rogers  took  me  into  the  Sergeant's  presence,  after  I 
had  been  drawing  him  as  the  "  Beetle  "  for  some  time. 

o 

The  late  Professor  Thorold  Hogers  was  for  many  years  a 
familiar  Bohemianish  fiofure  in  Parliament.     He  had  a  marked 

C. — VOL.   I.  R 


J    FEEL    SMALLER  ! 


242  CONFESS  IONS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

individuality,  a  strong  liead  and  a  rough  tongue,  an  uncouth 
manner,  sloppy  attire,  and  his  conversation  was  anything  but 
refined.  Still  he  was  kind  and  amusing,  and,  for  a  Professor  in 
Parliament,  popular.  Professors  are  not  liked  in  St.  Stephen's, 
and  never  a  success ;  and  as  a  politician  Professor  Thorold 
Rogers  was  no  exception  to  this  rule.  It  was  he  who  introduced 
me  to  the  Sergeant-at-Arms'  room,  that  sanctum  .sanctorum  of 
the  lively  spirits  of  Parliament.  Perhaps  I  ought  correctly  to 
call  it  Captain  Gosset's  room,  for  although  Captain  Gosset  was 
the  Sergeant-at-Arms,  the  Sergeant-at-Arms  was  by  no  means 
Captain  Gosset.     An  anecdote  will  illustrate  this. 

A  friend  of  mine,  a  well-known  journalist,  travelling  abroad 
during  the  Recess,  fell  in  with  Captain  Gosset, 
and  they  became  companions  in  their  journey. 
A  few  days  after  they  arrived  home  my 
journalistic  acquaintance  was  in  the  Inner 
Lobl^y  of  the  House  of  Commons  as  the 
Sergeant-at-Arms  was  passing  through,  and 
he  called  out,  "  How  are  you.  Captain  Gosset  X 
Any  the  worse  for  your  journey  ? " 

"  I  beo-  your  pardon,  sir.  I  have  not  the 

THE  BLACK  '^    ;  ^  . 

BEETLE  pleasure    of   your    acquaintance.       You    are 

mistaken." 
"  Nonsense,    Captain  !       Why,     we    travelled    together.       I 


am — 

a  r 


That  may  be,  l)ut Oh,  I  see,  you  are  thinking  of  that 

fellow  Gosset.  Sir,  I  am  the  Sergeant-at-Arms!"  And  he 
strode  off  with   the  s;reatest  dionitv. 

I  was  agreeably  surprised  when  I  was  introduced  to  the 
"Black  Beetle." 

"  Here  is  Harry  Furniss,  Gosset  (not  Sergeant,  I  observed) ; 
"  now  give  it  to  him." 

"  ]  )elighted  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Furniss.  You 
see  how  I  appreciate  your  work."  And  he  pointed  to  a  row  of 
})l;i(tk  l)eetle.s,  cut  out  of  Puiicli  and  ])asted  on  the  wall,  the 
rest  of  the  wall  being  covered  with  interesting  and  dignified 
portraits  of  Members.      Here   V\'as  Gosset  at  twelve  o'clock  at 


«  punch: 


243 


nio-lit.     At  twelve  noon  he  would  be   Sergeant-at-Arms,  with 
power  to  take  me  to  the  Clock  Tower. 

This  room  is  still  the  Sergeant-at- Arms'  office,  but  in  it  are 
no  portraits,  no  black  beetles— on  paper;  there  may  be  some 
living  specimens,  for  aught  I  know,  haunting  the  old  room  in 
search  of  the  lively  company,  the  pipes,  and  the  huge  decanters. 
The  present  Sergeant-at-Arms  is  as  unlike  a  black  beetle  as  he 


THE  SERGEAXT-AT-ARMs'  ROOM.     From  ^' Punch:' 


is  unlike  the  Bohemian  Gosset.  But  I  shall  be  surprised  if, 
when  the  courteous  and  universally  appreciated  Sergeant-at-Arms 
retires,  and  the  jjresent  Assistant  Sergeant-at-Arms,  Mr.  Gosset, 
takes  his  place,  we  shall  not  see  the  old  room  again  the  most 
entertaining  spot  in  the  Houses  of  Parliament. 

When  Professor  Eogers  was  escorting  me  to  the  famous  room, 
he  implored  me  to  leave  politics  outside  of  it, — as  if  I  ever  talked 
politics  in  the  House !    "  Rule  is — no  politics,  so  don't  forget  it." 

R  2 


244 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


"All,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  lie  sat  down,  "  why  aint  you  in  the 
House,  Tom,  vilifying  and  misrepresenting  the  Irish  as  I  heard 
you  this  afternoon !  Disgrticeful,  I  say,  disgraceful !  "  and  he 
thumped  the  table. 

"  No  politics,  Professor,"  "  Dick  "  Power  remarked. 
"  Oh,  indeed,  my  noble  Whip  ;  that  comes  well  from  a  beater 
to  a  l)eaten  gang.     Why  aint  you  at  your  post, — the  door-post, 
ha !   ha ! — and   rally  your  men   and    overthrow  these    damned 

Tories  1  Oh,  yes,  King-Harman, 
your  good  looks  do  not  atone 
for  bad  measures." 

"  No  politics,  Professor,"  all 
cried. 

"  Come,  Furniss,  come  away, 
they're  all  drunk  here.  I'll 
tell  you  my  last  story  on  the 
Terrace.  These  Tories  destroy 
everything." 

Such  was  my  introduction  to 
this  select  little  clul^  in  Parlia- 
ment, in  which,,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  Professor,  all  forgot 
politics,  and  the  l)est  of  the 
Tories,  Home  Eulers,  Radicals, 
and  officials  were  at  peace.  I 
was  always  on  most  friendly 
terms  with  my  "  Black  Beetle," 
a  proof  that  caricature  leaves  no 
unkhid  sting  when  the  victim  is  really  a  man  of  the  world  and 
a  jolly  good  fellow.  Surely  nothing  could  be  more  offensive  to 
an  official  in  high  office  than  to  l)e  continually  represented  as  a 
l)lack  l)eet]e  ! 

When  1  did  not  "invent"  a  character,  such  as  the  "Beetle," 
I  adopted  for  a  change  various  styles  of  drawing.  For  even  the 
work  of  a  caricaturist  becomes  monotonous  if  he  is  l)ut  a  master 
of  one  style  and  a  slave  to  inaiiiierisms.  To  avoid  this  I  am 
Egy})tiaii,     C'liiiiese,    Japanese,    and    at    times    "Childish" — a 


CAPT.  GOSSET,  LATE  SERGEANT- AT- 

AiiMS.      From    tlie  "  IlluslrdfctI 
London  Xcirs.'' 


'' PUNCH r 


245 


specimen  of  each  style  in  Pnncli  the  proprietors  have  kindly 
allowed  me  to  republish  in  these  pages.     There  is  really  very 


OUR   WINTER    EXHIBITION    OF    THE    WORKS    OF    YOUNG    MASTERS. 


little  artistic  merit  in  the 
"Childish"  style  of  work.  I 
did  not  use  it  often,  but  when- 
ever I  did  I  tried  to  intro- 
duce some  "  drawing  "  as  well. 
Here,  for  instance,  are  my 
Academy  skits — drawn  as  if  by 
a  l)oy,  l)ut  the  figures  of  the 
teacher  and  pupil  are  in  draw- 
ing. By  the  way,  these 
different  styles,  I  am  glad  to 
see,  are  still  kept  alive  in  the 
pages  of  Punch  hj  new — if  not  younger — hands.  This  year's 
(1901)  Academy  skits  and  other  drawings,  I  notice,  are  signed 


24G  COKFESSWXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

" 'Arry's  Son,"  l)ut  they  are  not — as  might  Le  thought — Ijy  one 
of  my  own  ])oys. 

During  most  of  the  time  I  enjoyed  a  privilege  which  ])elonged 
to  no  one  else,  not  excepting  Members,  for  even  Members  must, 
like  school])oys,  keep  "  within  bounds."  They  are  not  permitted, 
for  instance,  to  enter  the  Press  Gallery,  or  the  portion  of  the 
House  reserved  to  the  Press  ;  neither  can  Press-men  enter  the 
Members'  rooms  at  will.  The  pu])lic,  being  ignorant  of  the 
stringent  rules  of  St.  Stephen's,  cannot  understand  the  obstacles 

there  are   to   seeing 

PALACE    OF    WESTMINSTER  the  House.     One  in- 

_______  stance  will  suffice  to 


LOBD     OBEaT     chamberlains     OFFICE. 


show    the    absurdity 

^  ro/o  ^^  ^^®   rules.       The 

^V7  w  iy         i><  So  ex-Treasurer   of   the 

House      of      Lords, 
Adbimt  A,    D  i/lt       whosc    acquaintance 

/>v,     /7    ^^--^'^''^^^        I    hnd,    and    whose 


-^    -f-^^^yZ^    f^^  /c^^-^     (^  ^  offices   wei-e    in    the 

(CPxJ.o^(^^     ^  R/^Y^vx^'^^^*^     corridor  by  the  Select 

Chamber,  could  not 
take  anyone  into  the 
House,  even  when  it 
was  empty,  Avithout 
iii^/and,  a      written      order. 

^S0  Although  armed 
with  a  Gallery 
Ticket,  and  also  on  the  "  Lobby  list,"  i.e.,  the  right  to  enter 
the  Inner  Lobby,  I  was  not  free  to  make  any  sketches  of  the 
House  itself,  inside  or  out.  Eequiring  to  get  such  material  for 
the  elaborate  interiors  and  exteriors  I  use  in  my  Lecture- 
Entertainment,  "  The  Humours  of  Parliament,"  I  boldly  bearded 
the  highest  official  in  his  den,  and  left  with  this  simple 
document.  Aladdin's  key  could  not  have  caused  more  surprise 
than  this  talisman.  The  head  of  the  police,  the  Sergeant-at- 
Arms  himself,  could  not  interfere.  "The  Palace  of  West- 
minster "   includes    tlie    House    of   Commons,    so    I    made    full 


"  PUNCH."  249 

use  of  my  unique  opportunity,  and  possess  material  invaluable 
for  my  Parliamentary  work. 

I  had  facilities  in  another  way.  At  one  time  the  Engineer-in- 
Chief  was  a  friend  of  mine,  Dr.  Percy.  Few  men  were  better 
known  in  and  about  the  House  than  this  popular  official 
engineer  of  the  Palace  of  Westminster.  To  begin  with,  he  was 
over  six  feet  high,  and  had  a  voice  that  would  carry  from  the 
Commons  to  the  House  of  Lords.  He  had  to  be  "  all  over  the 
place  " — under  the  House,  over  the  House,  and  all  round  the 
House.  He  was  as  well-known  in  the  smoking-room  of  the 
Garrick  Club  as  he  was  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  Commons, 
and  it  was  when  I  joined  the  Garrick  I  made  his  acquaintance. 
He  was  also  an  art  connoisseu7\  and  had  a  very  fine  collection 
of  water-colours.  The  first  time  I  saw  the  Doctor  was  years 
before  on  a  steamer  on  the  Ranee,  between  Normandy  and 
Brittany.  I  made  a  sketch  of  his  extraordinary  features,  so 
tliat  when  he  entered  the  Garrick  Club  I  recoo-nised  the  orio-inal 
of  my  caricature.  We  frequently  walked  down  to  the  Houses  of 
Parliament  together  after  dinner,  and  more  than  once  he  invited 
me  behind  the  scenes  and  under  the  stage  of  Parliament,  through 
the  "fog  filter"  and  ventilating  shafts,  when  he  was  wont  to 
indulge  in  a  grim,  saturnine  humour  appropriate  to  his  subter- 
ranean subject.  As  he  opened  the  iron  doors  for  us  to  pass  from 
one  passage  to  another,  close  to  and  above  which  the  benches 
are  situated, — for  the  whole  House  is  honeycombed  for  ventilating 
purposes, — he  pretended  that  long  experience  enabled  him  to 
discriminate  between  the  odours  from  different  parts  of  the 
House,  and  declared  that  he  could  tap  and  draw  off  a  specimen 
of  the  atmosphere  on  the  Government  benches,  the  Opposition 
side,  or  the  Radical  seats,  at  will. 

"  There,  my  boy  !  eh  ^  Pretty  thick,  aiut  it  1  That's  the 
Scotch  lot.  Now  hold  your  nose.  I  open  this  door  and  we  get 
the  Irish  draught.  Ugh  !  Come  on,  come  on  quickly — mixture 
of  Irish,  working-men  M.P.'s,  and  Rads.     Kill  a  horse  !  " 

The  table  of  the  House,  which  ]\Ir.  Disraeli  erroneously 
described  as  "  a  solid  piece  of  furniture,"  is  in  reality — like  so 
many  arguments  which  are  flung  across  it — perfectly  hollow^ ; 


250 


COXfESS/OXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


and  one  evening  when  I  arrived  with  Dr.  Percy  and  found  that 
in  consequence  of  the  winding-up  speech  of  Mr.  Ghidstone  in  a 
great  debate  the  Pres^s  Gallery  was  full  and  all  the  seats  under 
the  gallery  were  occupied.  Dr.  Percy  kindly  allowed  me  to  sit 
inside  the  hihJe.  I  was  st)rely  tempted  to  try  the  effect  of 
inserting  my  pencil  through  the  grating  which  forms  the   side 


DR.   PERCY.      "THE   HOUSE   in». 

From  "  Pumh." 


'3  C'ui-ir  >i.ii  p\»f*iij»-'T-»~^ 


i>f  the  table,  and  tickle  the  shins  of  the  right  hon.  gentleman. 
Anyway,  I  looked  straight  into  the  faces  of  the  Ministers  and 
tlu'se  on  the  front  bench,  and  not  onlv  heard  eveiy  word,  but 

the  asides  antl  whisj>ei"s  as  well. 

I  only  once  i  ari«  atiuvd  Dr.  Percy  in  Punch  iDeceml>er,  1886), 
atter  tlicr.-  iiatl  bot-n  a  sort  of  earthquake  in  the  Inner  Lobby  of 
tlie  H'-iise,  and  rlie  tesselared  pavement  was  thrown  up.     I  made 


"  PUNCH." 


251 


a  drawing,  "The  House  up  at  last."  Dr.  Percy  "is  personally 
directing  the  improvements/'  It  is  interesting  to  know  tbat 
some  of  the  pavement  taken  up  on  that  occasion  is  laid  in  the 
hall  of  an  lion.  Member's  house  in  the  country,  not  far  from 
West  Kirby,  Cheshire. 


3in.   punch's   FUZZLE-HKADED  PEOPLt;.      JIU.  goschex. 
From  "  Punrhr 


THE    VILLAIN    (3F    ART. 

One  frequently  hears  the  remark,  "  Caricature  is  so  ugly." 
Well,  certainly  pure  caricature  is  the  villain  of  art,  and  the 
popular  draughtsman,  like  the  popular  actor,  should,  to  remain 
popular  in  his  work,  always  play  the  virtuous  hero.  If  the 
leading  actor  iinust  play  the  villain,  he  takes  care  to  make  up 
inoffensive  and  tame.     So  the  villain  caricaturist  need  not  be 


252 


COXFESSJONH   OF  A    CARICATURLST. 


"  Ugly  " — but  then  lie  cannot  be  strong.  Nor  is  it  left  to  an 
actor — unless  he  be  tlie  star  or  actor-manao^er — to  remain 
popular  by  being  tame  and  pretty  in  every  part.  So  is  the 
caricaturist,  if  he  is  not  the  star,  liable  to  be  cast  to  play  the 


MR.    PUNCH  S   PUZZI.E-UEADED    PEOPLE. 

From  *'  Punch.'" 


ALL    HARCOURTS. 


villain  wlietlier  he  likes  it  or  not,  and  if  he  is  a  genuine  worker 
he  will  not  shrink  from  the  part,  merely  to  remain  popular  and 
currv  favour  with  those  deservinsf  to  be  satirised. 

Now  in  Pimch,  [is  I  was  cast  for  it,  I  played  the  villain's 
part.  Ill  doing  so  I  was  at  times  necessarily  "ugly,"  and 
thcivt'orc  to  some  unpopular.      1   confess   I   felt  it  my  duty  not 


"PUNCH:'  253 

to  shrink  from  being  "  ugly,"  although  whenever  I  could  I 
introduced  some  redeeming  element  into  my  designs — the 
figure  of  a  girl,  allegorical  of  Parliament  or  whatever  the  "  ugly" 
subject  might  happen  to  be — but  in  some  of  my  Punch  drawings 
this  relief  was  impossible.  For  instance,  the  series  of  "  Puzzle 
Heads,"  in  each  of  which  a  portrait  of  the  celebrity  is  built  up 
of  personal  attributes,  characteristics,  or  incidents  in  the  career 
of  the  person  represented,  could  not  but  be  unpleasant  pictures. 
Some  subscribers  threatened  to  give  up  the  paper  if  they  were 
continued  ;  others  became  subscribers  for  these  Puzzle  Heads 
alone.  It  is  ever  so.  The  old  saying,  "  One  man's  meat  is 
another's  poison,"  is  as  applicable  to  caricature  as  to  anything 
else.  It  is  impossible  to  please  all  tastes  when  catering  for  the 
large  public,  unless  an  editor  is  satisfied  to  be  stereotyped  and 
perfunctory  ;  but  Mr.  Punch  has  made  his  name  by  his  strength, 
not  his  weakness,  and  it  may  be  safely  inferred  that  no  Tory 
thinks  less  of  him  for  having  used  all  his  talent  in  attacking 
Benjamin  Disraeli  year  after  year  as  no  man  has  been  attacked 
before — or  since — in  his  pages. 

In  looking  through  the  volumes  of  Punch  one  is  apt  to  forget 
that  the  strong  situations  and  stirring  events  by  which  a 
caricaturist's  hi*  is  made  effective  at  the  time  of  publication 
fade  from  one's  memory.  The  cartoon  in  all  its  strength 
remains  a  record  of  an  event  which  has  lost  its  interest.  One 
cannot  always  realise  that  the  drawing  was  only  strong  because 
the  feeling  and  interest  at  the  time  of  its  conception  demanded 
it.  Allowance  should  therefore  be  made  for  the  villain's  ugly 
caricature,  if  it  is  a  good  drawing,  prophetically  correct,  and 
therefore  historically  interesting. 

Perhaps  no  cartoon  of  mine  in  Punch  caused  such  hostile 
criticism  as  "The  New  Cabinet"  (August  27,  1892).  It  gave 
great  offence  to  the  Gladstonians.  The  Eadical  Press  attacked 
me  ferociously,  and  as  I  think  most  unfairly,  for  they  treated  it 
politically  and  not  pictorially,  and  severely  reprimanded  Mr. 
Punch  for  publishing  it.  Had  it  ])een  a  Conservative  Cabinet 
the  Tory  Press  would  not  have  resented  it  or  allowed  narrow- 
minded  party  politics  to  prejudice  their  mind  in  such  trivial 


254  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

matters.  Punch  is  supposed  to  be  non- political.  Its  present 
editor  is  impartial.  Mr.  Punch's  traditions  are  Whig,  and 
somehow  or  other  a  certain  class  of  its  readers  at  that  particular 
crisis  was  strongly  opposed  to  the  two  sides  of  a  question  being 
treated.  Yet  I  venture  to  say  two-thirds  of  the  readers  of 
PuncJi  are  Conservatives,  and  should  therefore  be  amused.  It 
is  impossible  to  treat  a  strong  political  subject — such  as  the 
meeting  of  that  particular  Cabinet  caricatured  by  me — without 
offending  some  readers  by  amusing  others,  unless,  as  I  say,  the 
subject  is  treated  in  a  colourless  manner.  This  particular  cartoon 
hurt  because  it  hit  a  strong  situation  in  a  truthful  and  straight- 
forward manner,  and  subsequent  events  proved  it  to  be  a  correct 
conception.  Yet  at  the  time  no  name  was  too  bad  for  me,  and 
as  these  are  my  confessions,  let  me  assure  the  public  that  had 
the  Cabinet  been  a  Conservative  one  I  would  have  treated  it  in 
exactly  the  same  way  ;  and  it  is  my  firm  conviction  that  had 
such  been  the  case  I  would  have  given  no  offence  either  inside 
or  outside  of  Mr.  Punch's  office. 

My  readers  will  sympathise  with  me.  I  am  to  draw  political 
cartoons  without  being  political ;  I  am  to  draw  caricatures 
without  being  personal  ;  I  am  to  be  funny  without  holding  my 
subject  up  to  ridicule ;  I  am  to  be  effective  without  being  strong — 
in  fact,  I  am  to  be  a  caricaturist  without  caricature  !  On  the 
other  hand,  no  cartoon  I  ever  drew  for  Punch  was  more  popular. 
Non- politicians  were  good  enough  to  accept  it  as  an  antidote  to 
the  usual  caricatures,  and  those  papers  on  the  other  side  of 
politics  were  extravagantly  complimentary,  and  I  received  a 
large  sum  for  the  original  for  a  private  collection.  I  allow  the 
following  leaderette  from  the  Birmingham  Post  to  illustrate  the 
point,  and  at  the  same  time  to  describe  the  cartoon.  The  same 
paper,  I  may  add,  comments  on  the  principal  cartoon  in  Punch 
that  week— drawn  by  Tenniel — -as  showing  that  Punch  "  thinks 
little  of  the  prospects  of  the  present  Government"  : 

"  '  Mr.  Puncli  '  is  in  '  excellent  fooling'  this  week.  Earely  has  he,  even 
he,  more  liappily  Inuiesqued  apolitical  situation  than  in  Mr.  Hai'ry  Furniss's 
cartoon  of  '  The  New  Cahinet.'  Not  a  word  of  explanation  accompanies 
the  picture  :   it  is  good   wine,  needing  no  hush,  and  making  very  merry. 


''PUNCHY 


255 


A  glance  suffices  to  seize  its  meaning,  for  it  expresses  a  thought  that  has 
flitted,  at  one  time  or  another,  through  everyone's  mind.  The  big  moment 
has  come  when  Mr.  Gladstone  is  to  reveal  to  his  colleagues  the  secret  he 
has  hitherto  withheld  from  them,  not  less  than  from  the  electorate — to  submit 
to  them,  masterly,  succinct,  complete,  the  scheme  which,  with  unexampled 
courage  and  sublimest  modesty,  they  have  defended  on  trust,  for  which 
they  have  sacrificed  their  personal  independence  without  knowing  why,  and 
as  to  which,  painful  to  remember,  they  have  sometimes  blundered  into  con- 
fident and  contradictory  conjecture.     We  can  picture  the  subtle  excitement 


THE    NEW    CABINET. 

REDUCTION  FROM  ENGRAVING  IN  PUNCH. 


— in  one  Minister  of  joyful  expectation,  in  another  of  horrid  misgiving 
— under  w^hich  they  have  come  together.  Well,  Mr.  Gladstone  unfolds  the 
fateful  document,  and  lo  !  it  is  a  blank  sheet.  Paralysis  and  grim  despair 
fall  upon  the  spirits  of  the  assembly ;  face  to  face  wnth  a  nightmare  reality, 
not  a  man  amongst  them  has  strength  to  say,  'This  is  a  dream.'  At  the 
head  of  the  table,  his  elbows  resting  on  the  parchment,  and  an  undipped 
quill  actually  split  upon  it  in  his  angry  grasp,  sits  the  Premier,  a  never-to- 
be-forgotten  picture  of  impotent  ill-humour.  The  task  with  which  the 
Cabinet  is  confronted,  for  him  as  for  the  rest,  is  impossible  and  yet 
inexorable.     In  the  candle-flame,  by  an  effect  of  hallucination  natural  at 


256  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

such  a  moment,  the  face  of  Mr.  O'Brien  seems  to  Hmn  itself  out,  implacable 
and  contemptuous  ;  and  there  is  a  fearsome  shadow  on  the  blind — the 
massive  head  of  Lord  Salisbury.  The  candle,  marked  '  40,'  is  the  majority, 
whicli  dwindles  while  the  Ministers  are  sadly  musing  ;  and  over  the  mantel- 
piece, behind  the  Premier's  chair,  mutely  reproachful,  hangs  a  picture  of 
the  great  Cabinet  of  1880.  It  is  distinctly  the  best  thing  Mr.  Furniss 
has  done." 

That  impression  was  shared  by  my  private  friends  as  well, 
even  those  on  Punch.  My  dear  friend  ^Nlr.  E.  J.  Milliken,  a 
stronor  Radical,  and  a  most  active  member  of  the  staff,  in  a 
reply  to  a  letter  of  mine,  in  which  I  intimated  that  I  was 
afraid  my  cartoon  would  give  offence,  replied  in  a  most  flatter- 
ing spirit. 

I  had  to  play  the  "  villain "  in  another  scene  in  the  same 
political  drama,  "Mr.  Punch's  Historical  Cartoons"  (1893),  in 
which  the  same  Cabinet  is  shown  in  Mr.  Gladstone's  room  in 
the  "  Bauble  Shop  " — the  House  of  Commons.  Those  Radicals 
who  had  not  joined  the  Unionists  again  took  offence.  Those 
Radicals  who  had  become  Unionist  wrote  to  congratulate  me. 
From  one  well-known  and  powerful  personality,  a  historical 
name  in  the  publishing  world,  I  received  the  following : 

"  February  23rd,  1893. 

"  Your  cartoon  p.  95  delights  us  all.  I  have  looked  at  it  twenty  times 
and  seen  fresh  points  in  it.  Nothing  for  years,  I  should  say,  has  so 
entirely  caught  the  very  spirit  of  a  great  crisis. 

"We  shall  owe  something  to  you  for  this  felicitous  exposure  of 
Gladstone's  insane  Bill.  Alas  !  the  miners  and  the  brickies,  the  coster- 
mongers  and  the  dust-cart  drivei's,  have  now  the  power.  The  middle  class 
has  l»een  out-numbered,  and  if  it  were  not  tliat  some  labouring  men  and 
artisans  have  hard  heads  enough  to  comjjrehend  the  position  we  should  be 
landed  in  a  pretty  pickle  next  September. 

"  It  is  a  pity  traitors'  heads  are  nowadays  their  own  copyright." 

A  '■  copyright  "  iu  heads  is  a  good  suggestion,  and  coming 
from  a  publisher  too  !  15ut  a})ai't  from  "  traitors,"  there  are 
others  known  to  a  caricaturist.  I'hc  House  of  Commons  at  one 
time  was  rich  iu  tliem.      Some  sucli  works  of  art  sutler  in  being 


"PUKCIL"  257 

translated.     Indeed,  what  the  poet  "  Ballyhooley  "  wrote  of  one 
might  apply  to  others  : 

"  Dakwin  MacNeill. 
"  Darwin  MacNeill,  all  the  papers  are  hot  on  you, 

Darwin  MacNeill,  they  are  writing  a  lot  on  you. 

What  in  the  world  sort  of  face  have  you  got  on  you  ? 

Send  us  your  photograph,  Darwin  MacNeill. 

Surely  you  must  be  both  lovely  and  pure  ! 

Have  you  got  fatures  that  nothing  can  cure  ? 

Let's  have  the  first  of  it, 

Let's  know  the  worst  of  it : 

Is  your  face  only  a  caricature  ? 

Here's  a  health  to  you,  Darwin  MacNeill, 

Let  penny  canes  all  your  enemies  feel ; 

Show  me  the  crature  w^ould  slander  a  fature 

Of  the  beautiful  Mimber  for  ould  Donegal. 

"  Our  childhers  are  dull,  and  we  wish  to  be  brightening  them 
Send  us  your  picture  and  we'll  be  enlightening  them. 
Maybe  'twill  only  be  useful  for  frightening  them  ; 
Still  let  us  have  it,  dear  Darwin  MacNeill. 
Shut  up  the  slander  and  talk  they  are  at. 
Show  us  the  head  you've  got  under  your  hat ; 
True  every  particle,  genuine  article, 
Send  us  your  picture  in  answer  to  that. 
Here's  a  health  to  you,  etc. 

"  I  hear  that  the  Queen  she  has  simply  gone  crazy,  man  ; 
Says  she  to  Gladstone,  '  Get  out,  you  old  lazy  man ! 
Cannot  you  see  that  I'll  never  be  aisy,  man, 
Till  I've  a  portrait  of  Darwnn  MacNeill  ?  ' 
When  of  that  picture  she  first  got  a  sight. 
She  held  it  up,  so  they  say,  to  the  light, 
Looked  at  the  head  of  it,  then  all  she  said  of  it, 
'  I'm  of  opinion  that  Darwin  is  right.' 
Here's  a  health  to  you,  etc. 

"  There's  just  arrived  now%  to  give  great  content  to  us, 
A  lovely  picture,  which  someone  has  sent  to  us. 
We  know  the  worst  now,  for  there  has  been  sent  to  vis 
What's  called  a  portrait  of  Darwin  MacNeill. 
If  it's  a  likeness,  I  just  tell  you  what. 
That  you  have  acted  in  ways  you  should  not. 
Don't  try  a  turn  of  fists 
On  with  the  journalists  ; 

Thrash  those  who  gave  you  the  head  you  have  got. 
C. — VOL.    I.  S 


258 


COyFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


But  liere's  a  health  to  you.  Darwin  MacNeill ! 
Only  just  manage  new  fatures  to  steal, 
Then  show  me  tlie  crature  would  slander  a  fature 
Of  the  heautiful  Mimher  for  ould  Donegal." 

This  "Pen  Portrait,"  by  Mr.  Kobert  Martin,  refers  to  a  matter 
of  much  regret  to  me.  I  have  to  confess  my  sorrow  that  I  was 
the  means  of  making  a  Member  of  Parliament  ridiculous  !  The 
innocent  item  came  in  tJie  ordinary  course  of  my  work  for  Punch. 

I  was  sent  an  incident   to 


PUNCH,  OR  THE   LONDON  CIURIVARI. 


illustrate  for  the  Diary  of 
Toby,  M.P.,  which,  when 
published,  was  used  as  an  ex- 
cuse to  "technically assault" 
me  in  the  Inner  Lobby  of 
the  House  of  Commons. 

Perhaps  in  the  cir- 
cumstances I  may  be  par- 
doned if  I  confess  a  secret 
connected  with  these  Parlia- 
mentary caricatures.  For 
some  years  I  provided  a  page 
drawincr  and  some  small  cuts 
in  every  number  during 
Parliament — the  latter  were 
generally  sketches  of  Mem- 
bers of  Parliament.  These 
single  portraits  were  sup- 
plied in  advance,  and 
engraved  proofs  sent  in  a  book  to  Mr.  Lucy  to  select  from  week 
by  week.  The  following  letter  is  worth  quoting  in  full  as  a 
chara(;teristic  letter  from  the  Editor,  typical  of  his  light  and 
pleasant  way  of  transacting  business  with  his  staff: 

"  Dkak  H.  p., — "Please  keyindly  see  that  H.  L.  (not  '  Labby,'  but 
■*  Lucy  ' )  has  all  your  parliamentarians  whom  you  (as  yovir  predecessor 
Henry  VIII.  did)  have  executed  on  the  block  sent  to  him,  as  he  found 
himself  unprovided  up  to  the  last  moment  and  so  wrote  to  me  in  his  haste. 
"  (?)  Fancy  portrait.  Our  artist,  H.  F.,  as  Henry  VIII.  taking  off  his 
victims' lieads  on  the  block,  eh?  "Yours,  "F.  C.  B." 


REDUCTION  OF  PAGE  IN  PUNCH,  SHOW- 
ING THAT  MY  CARICATURES  WERE — 
IN  THIS  CSAE — PUBLISHED  TOO  LARGE. 


"FU.YCH." 


259 


To  tliis  rule,  however,  there  were  exceptions.  This  particular 
caricature  was  one  of  them :  it  was  drawn  at  the  last  moment 
to  illustrate  a  particular  passage  in  Mr.  Lucy's  Diary  of  Toby, 
M.P.     Here  it  is: 

"  '  Look  here,  Bartley,'  said  Tommy  Bowles  ;  '  if  you're  going  on  that 
tack,  you  must  come  and  sit  on  this  side.     When  I  saw  MacNeill  open 
his   mouth   to  speak,  I  confess  I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  swallowed 
whole.     You   sit  here  ; 
there's  more  of  you.'  " 

Now  had  I  shown 
"  Pono-o,"  as  he  was 
familiarly  called  in 
the  House,  in  the 
act  of  swallowing 
"  Tommy  Bowles,"  I 
might  have  pro- 
duced a  most  objec- 
tionable caricature. 
I  made,  however,  a 
smiling  portrait  of 
the  genial  Member. 
I  was  away  at  the 
time  recovering  from 
a  lono;  illness :  the 
sketch  was  made  in 
the  country,  and  sent 
up  to  the  Punch  en- 
graver's office.  By 
some  mistake  there, 
it  was  not  reduced  in  size  in  reproduction  as  others  had  been ; 
therefore  in  the  paper  it  was  apparently  given  extra  importance 
— I  jiad  nothing  to  do  with  that.  That  Mr.  Lucy's  reference 
to  Mr.  MacNeill  is  not  a  caricature  can  be  judged  by  anyone 
reading  the  passage  I  had  to  illustrate,  given  above.  The  notion 
that  the  drawing  was  purposely  produced  on  a  larger  scale  than 
usual,  so  as  to  give  this  special  caricature  prominence,  is  dis- 
proved ])y  the  fact  that  the  caricature  of  the  gallant  and  genial 

s  2 


■^"^-^  ^ 


A 


dit^-^ 


i-J^ 


liJ^S  '^  ''yr&vi'^h^^/'^^^i^. 


REDUCTION  FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  DRAWING, 
SHOWING  THAT  I  GAVE  INSTRUCTIONS 
FOR  THE  CARICATURE  TO  BE  "  REDUCED 
AS   USUAL." 


260  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

Admiral  Field  I  drew  exactly  under  the  same  conditions  appears 
on  the  same  page  also  far  too  large.  Therefore  it  is  a  mistaken 
idea  that  this  particular  portrait  was  intentionally  offensive,  or 
different  from  others. 

Tt  was  really  the  comhination  of  circumstances,  if  anything, 
that  called  special  attention  to  that  particular  page  in  Punch, 
and  gave  rise  to 

A   SCENE   IN   THE   LOBBY. 

I  shall,  in  describing  the  curtain  rising  on  this  historical 
incident,  borrow  Mr.  Lucy's  own  account  of  the  way  in  which 
the  JMember  approached  me  after  he  had  seen  my  illustration  to 
Mr.  Lucy's  clever  Diary  of  the  Week  : 

"  It  was  shortly  after  seven  o'clock  that  Mr.  Harry  Furniss 
strolled  into  the  Lobby.  He  had  been  suffering  from  a  long  and 
severe  sickness,  dedicating  this  the  first  evening  of  his  con- 
valescence to  a  visit  to  the  scene  of  labours  which  have 
delighted  mankind.  Over  the  place  there  brooded  an  air  of 
ineffable  peace.  The  bustle  of  the  earlier  hour  of  meeting  was 
stilled.  The  drone  of  talk  went  on  in  the  half-empty  House 
within  the  glass  doors.  Now  and  then  a  Member  hastily 
crossed  the  floor  of  the  Lol)by,  intent  on  preparations  for 
dinner.  One  of  these  chanced  to  be  Mr.  Swift  MacNeill,  a 
Member  who,  beneath  occasional  turbulence  of  manner,  scarcely 
conceals  the  gentlest,  kindliest  disposition,  a  gentleman  by  birth 
and  training,  a  scholar  and  a  patriot.  The  House,  whilst  it 
sometimes  laughs  at  his  exuberance  of  manner,  always  shows 
that  it  likes  him.  Mr.  Furniss,  seeing  him  approach  with 
hurried  step,  may  naturally  have  expected  that  he  was  making 
haste  to  offer  those  congratulations  on  renewed  health  and 
reappearance  on  the  scene  of  labour  that  had  already  been 
proffered  from  other  quarters.  AVhat  followed  has  been  told 
l)y  Mr.  Furniss  in  laiiguage  the  simplicity  and  graphicness  of 
which  Defoe  could  not  have  excelled." 

Mr,  Lucy  refers  to  the  following  account  I  wrote  at  the 
time  : 

"  ( )ii   my  return    to    continue    my  work   in    Parliament    for 


''PUNGHr  261 

Mr.  Punch  after  my  severe  illness,  I  found  the  jaded  legislators 
yearning  for  fresh  air,  and  even  the  approaching  final  division 
on  the  Home  Rule  Bill  had  failed  to  arouse  more  than  a  languid 
interest.  I  felt  this  depression  when  I  entered  the  Lobby,  its 
sole  occupants  being  the  tired-out  doorkeepers  and  the  leg- 
weary  policemen.  I  really  believe  a  swarm  of  wasps  would  not 
have  roused  them  to  activity,  for  I  noticed  a  bluebottle  resting 
undisturl)ed  upon  the  nose  of  one  of  Inspector  Horsley's  staff. 
Even  the  Terrace  was  dusty,  and  the  Members  rusty  and 
morose.  One  of  the  Irish  Members  had  selected  as  his  friend 
Frank  Slavin,  the  well-known  prize-fighter,  who  had  an  admiring 
group  round  him,  to  whom  no  doubt  he  was  relating  the  history 
of  his  many  plucky  battles. 

"The  stimulating  effect  of  this 
may  have  been  the  cause  for  the 
assault  upon  me  in  the  Inner 
Lobby,  which  has  afforded  the 
stale  House  some  little  excite- 
ment, which  has  been  the  salva- 
tion of  the  silly  season.  So 
many  papers  have  given  startling 
accounts  of  this  attack  upon  me, 
some  stating  that  I  was  caned, 
others  that  I  was  pummelled,  shaken  like  a  dog,  and  so  on,  that 
I  am  glad  to  take  the  opportunity  of  giving  a  clear  statement 
of  what  really  occurred.  I  was  standing  close  to  the  doors  of 
the  Inner  Lobby,  talking  to  Mr.  Cuthl^ert  Quilter,  when  Mr. 
Swift  MacNeill  interrupted  us  by  asking  me,  '  Are  you  the  man 
that  draws  the  cartoons  in  Punch  P  '  '  That  depends  upon  what 
they  are,'  said  I.  '  I  refer  to  one,'  said  the  excited  Member, 
'that  has  annoyed  me  very  much.'  'Let  me  see  it,'  I  replied. 
Mr.  MacNeill  then  drew  out  his  pocket-book  and  showed  me 
a  cutting  from  the  current  numljer  of  Punch.  '  Yes,'  I  said, 
'that  is  from  a  drawing  of  mine.'  'Then  ye're  a  low,  black- 
guardly scoundrel,'  melodramatically  exclaimed  the  usually 
genial  Meml)er.  Taking  two  or  three  steps  back,  he  hissed  at 
me,  with  a  livid  face,  a  series  of  offensive  epithets  too  coarse  for 


WHAT   HAPPEXED. 


262 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


pul)lication.  I[aving  exhausted  his  vocabulary  of  vulgarity,  a 
happy  thought  seemed  to  strike  him.  '  I  want  to  assault  you/ 
he  said,  and  forthwith  he  nervously  and  gingerly  tapped  me  as 
if  he  were  pLaying  with  a  hot  coal.  He  then  danced  off  to 
]Meml)ers  wlio  were  looking  on,  crying,  'This  is  the  scoundrel 
who  has  caricatured  me ;  witness,  I  assault  him ! '  and  he 
recommenced  the  tapping  process  which  constituted  this 
technical  assault.  Knowing  that  Mr.  MacNeill  is  a  very 
excitable  subject,  and  at  once  detecting  that  this  assault  was  a 
'put-up  job,'  I  was  determined  to  remain  perfectly  cool;  and, 
truth  to  tell,  the  pirouetting  of  the  agitated  Member  hugely 

amused  me,  particularly  as  the  more 
excited  he  became, the  more  he  resembled 
the  caricature  w^hich  was  the  cause,  or 
supposed  to  be  the  cause,  of  this  attack. 
I  treated  the  hon.  Member  exactly  as 
the  policeman  treated  the  bluebottle — 
with  perfect  indifference,  not  even 
troul)ling  to  brush  away  the  trifling 
annoyance.  But  when  in  the  midst  of 
its  buzzing  round  me  I  moved  in  the 
direction  of  one  of  the  officials,  it  flew 
away.  Then  appeared  what  I  had 
been  anticipating,  and  the  real  cause 
of  the  insult  transpired.  Dr.  Tanner  came  up  to  me  just 
as  I  recollect  Slavin  approaching  Jackson  in  their  historic 
fight.  He  showered  the  grossest  insults  upon  me,  and  I  was 
surrounded  at  once  by  his  clique,  who  were  anxious  for  the 
scene  which  must  have  occurred  had  I,  like  Jackson,  been  the 
first  to  let  out  with  my  left.  But  here  again  was  I  face  to  face 
with  a  chronically  excited  Member,  backed  up  by  his  friends, 
and  I  refused  to  be  drawn  into  a  brawl.  But  the  secret  of  the 
rej'J  cause  of  this  organised  attack  upon  me  was  revealed  to  me 
by  Dr.  Tanner,  who  at  once  informed  me  that  it  was  the 
outcome  of  my  imitations  of  the  Irish  Members  in  my 
entertainment,  '  The  Humours  of  Parliament,'  which  I  have 
given    for    two  seasons  all  over  the    country.       This    was  my 


DU.    TAXXER. 


''PUNCH: 


263 


offence ;  my  caricature  of  Mr.  Swift  MacNeill  the  excuse  for 
the  attack." 

Mr.  MacNeill's  "technical  assault "  was  a  very  childish  incident. 
He  merely  touched  the  sleeve  of  my  coat  with  the  tip  of  his 
finger,  and  asked  me  if  I  would  accept  that  as  a  "  technical 
assault."  This  mysterious  pantomime  was  subsequently  ex- 
plained to  me,  and  meant  that  I  was  to  take  out  a  summons — 
but  I  only  laughed.  At  the  moment  Mr.  MacNeill  was  pirouett- 
ing round  me  at  a  distance,  Mr. 
John  Burns  came  on  to  the 
scene,  and  chaffed  Mr.  MacNeill, 
drawing  an  imaginary  picture 
(for  Mr.  Burns  was  not  in  the 
Lob])y)  of  a  real  assault  upon  me. 
A  gentleman  connected  with  an 
evening  paper,  who  happened 
to  enter  with  Mr.  Burns,  failed 
to  see  Mr.  Burns's  humour,  and 
thereupon  took  down  in  short- 
hand Mr.  Burns's  imag-inarv 
picture  as  a  matter  of  fact.  It 
was  published  as  a  fjict,  and,  for 
all  I  know  or  care,  some  may  still 
believe  that  I  was  assaulted  ! 

When  I  read  that  I  had  been 
treated  like  a  cur,  I  was  rather 
amused ;  but  when  I  read  a  state- 
ment in  the  papers  from  a  man 

like  John  Burns  saying  that  he  saw  me  "  taken  by  the  lapels  of 
the  coat  and  shaken  like  a  dog,  and  then  taken  by  the  ear  and 
shaken  l)y  that,"  I  thought  the  joke  had  been  carried  far  enough. 
Determined  to  have  this  cock-and-bull  story  contradicted  at 
once,  I  went  down  to  the  House  and  saw  Mr.  John  Burns,  who 
expressed  to  me  his  regret  that  he  should  have  invented  the 
story,  and  he  left  me  to  go  to  the  writing-room,  and  promised  I 
should  have  from  him  a  written  contradiction. 

After  waiting  a  consideral)le  time,  a  message  was  brought  to 


ASSAULT   ON  ME   IN   THE   HOUSE. 
WHAT   THE   PEESS   DESCRIBED. 


264  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

me  tliat  Mr.  Burns  declined  to  keep  his  promise.  I  therefore 
wrote  tliese  particulars  and  sent  them  off  to  the  Press.  At  the 
same  time  Mr.  Burns,  who  had  ])een  closeted  with  some  Radical 
journalists,  wrote  an  offensive  note — which  was  shown  me,  and 
which  I  advised  him  to  publish. 

Poor  Mr.  MacNeill !  Well  may  he  say,  "  Save  me  from  my 
friends  !  "  The  Press  put  on  their  comic  men  to  make  copy 
at  his  expense.  If  I  were  to  publish  it  all,  it  would  make  a 
volume  as  large  as  this.  By  permission  I  publish  the  following 
lay  from  the  St.  James'  Budget  (September,  1893)  : 

"THE  LAY  OF  SWIFT  MACNEILL. 

(Picked  up  in  the  Lobby.) 
"  Have  ye  heard,  have  ye  heard,  of  the  late  immortal  fray, 
When  the  lion  back  of  Swift  MacNeill  got  up  and  stood  at  bay, 
When  the  lion  voice  of  Tanner  cried,  '  To  Judas  wid  yer  chaff!  ' 
x\n'  the  Saxon  knees  were  shaking,  though  they  made  believe  to  laugh. 

•"  'Twas  widin  the  Commons'  Lobby,  in  the  corner  by  the  dure, 
Tliere  was  Misther  Harry  Furniss  a-standing  on  the  flure. 
When  up  to  him  came  stalking,  like  O'Tarquin  in  his  pride, 
The  bowldest  of  the  bovvld,  MacNeill,  wid  the  Docther  by  his  side. 

■"  Then  the  valiant  Swift  MacNeill  from  his  pocket  he  took  out 
A  picther  very  like  him,  an'  he  brandished  it  about, 
An'  he  held  it  up  to  Furniss  for  his  Saxon  eyes  to  see. 
An'  he  asked  of  him,  '  Ye  spalpeen,  is  this  porthrait  meant  for  me  ? ' 

*'  '  'Tis  your  likeness,  as  I  see  it,'  was  tiie  answer  that  he  got. 
An'  the  wrath  of  Misther  Swift  MacNeill  then  wax'd  exceeding  hot, 
An'  he  cast  the  picther  from  him,  an'  he  trod  it  on  the  ground, 
An'  he  took  an'  danced  an  Irish  jig  the  artist's  form  around. 

"  '  Ye  spalpeen,'  thus  again  he  spoke,  '  ye  most  obnoxious  fellow  ! 
Ye  see  that  I'm  a  lion,  yet  ye've  made  me  a  gorilla ; 
If  your  Saxon  eyes  are  blinded  to  the  truth  of  what  I  say. 
Go  and  borrow  for  a  moment  the  glasses  of  Tay  Pay. 

"  '  They  will  show  ye  that  our  seventy  are  Apollos  one  and  all, 
That  we're  most  divinely  lovely  an'  seraphically  tall ; 
They  will  show  ye  we're  all  angels — though  for  divils  I'll  allows 
'Tis  the  black  ones  ye'll  be  seeing  where  the  lost  to  Redmond  bow.* 

"  Then  Misther  Swift  MacNeill,  just  to  lave  his  meaning  clear, 
Wid  flowers  of  Irish  eloquence  filled  Mr.  Furniss'  ear ; 
An'  he  also  shook  wid  passion,  an',  moreover,  shook  his  fist. 
An'  ihe  Docther  an"  his  blackthorn  stood  all  readv  to  assist. 


''PUNCH: 


265 


"Misther  Furniss  smiled  serenely,  an'  the  only  word  he  spoke 
Was  to  say  it  seemed  that  Misther  Swift  was  slow  to  see  a  joke, 
But  for  all  his  jokes  an'  blarney,  things  were  looking  like  a  fight, 
When  a  minion  of  the  Spayker  was  seen  to  be  in  sight. 

"  Then  Apollo  Swift  MacNeill  from  his  dignity  got  down, 
An'  he  .withered  Misther  Furniss  wid  a  godlike  parting  frown. 
An'  he  stalked  along  the  Lobby  wid  his  grand  O'Tarquin  stride. 
An'  the  other  Mimbers  followed  him,  an'  went  the  House  inside. 

"  An'  there  they  still  are  threading  on  the  necks  of  Saxon  slaves, 
An'  nightly  wid  their  eloquence  they're  digging  Saxon  graves  ; 
An'  my  counsel  to  the  artist  who  their  fatures  would  porthray. 
Is  to  thry  and  see  their  beauty  through  the  glasses  of  Tay  Pay." 

This  manufactured  "scene,"  coming  as  it  did  in  the  silly 
season,  was  made  to  serve  instead  of  the 
Sea-Serpent,  the  Toad-in-the-Eock,  the 
Shower  of  Frogs,  and  other  familiar 
inventions  for  holiday  reading.  Un- 
fortunately the  poor  Members  of 
Parliament  obliged  to  remain  in  St. 
Stephen's  had  to  suffer  far  more  than 
I  did  through  the  eccentricity  of  Mr. 
Swift  MacNeill.  Several  of  them  com- 
plained to  me  that  he  lured  them  into 
the  corridors  and  corners  of  the  House, 
and  then  vigorously  set  to  work  to 
demonstrate  practically  how  he  assaulted 
me,  or  how  he  imagined  he  assaulted  me, 
to  the  discomfiture  and  consternation 
of  the  poor  M.P.'s. 

I  should  like  to  explain  why  this 
"  technical  assault "  on  me  was  not  made 
a  matter  of  discussion.  I  did  intend 
a  friendly  Member  should  have  brousfht 
it  before  the  Speaker,  and  in  that  way 
published  the  truth  of  the  matter  and 
exposed  the  stupid  inventions  of 
Burns  &  Co.  With  that  object  I  had  an  interview  with  the 
Speaker,  and  he  implored   me    not    under   any    circumstances 


JOHX   BURNS. 


2G6  CONFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

to  have  it  brought  before  the  House.  He  was  already  tired, 
at  the  end  of  a  trying  session,  and  did  not  want  any  per- 
sonal questions  discussed,  which  invariably  led  to  protracted 
scenes.  For  that  reason,  and  for  that  reason  only,  it  was  not 
mentioned  in  Parliament,  notwithstanding  it  was  really  a  much 
more  serious  affair  than  was  imagined.  It  was  a  deliberately 
organised  conspiracy.  When  I  was  leaving  the  Lobby,  after  my 
amusinij  interview  with  Mr.  MacNeill,  in  which  he  told  me  that 
I  was  "  technically  assaulted,"  Chief  Inspector  Horsley  took  me 
down  a  private  passage,  and  informed  me  that  he  had  been 


5  ° 

p  a 

=i  S  < 

-     o  o 

I       3  CO 


NOTE   FROM   SIR    FRANK   LOCKWOOD,    AFTER   READING   THE 
BOGUS  ACCOUNT   OF   THE   "  ASSAUi.T." 

looking  for  me,  as  he  had  discovered  there  was  a  conspiracy  to 
attack  me,  and  at  that  moment  nine  or  ten  Members  from 
Ireland  were  in  the  passage  downstairs,  out  of  which  I  would 
have  in  the  ordinary  course  gone  through,  lying  in  wait  for  me. 
So  I  left  with  him  by  another  door. 

In  this  I  was  not  more  to  Ijlame  than  other  caricaturists,  but 
I  was  more  in  evidence,  and  was  selected  to  be  "  technically 
assaulted,"  so  as  to  force  me  to  Ijring  an  action,  in  which  all 
papers,  except  those  supporting  the  Irish  Party,  wovdd  have  been 
attacked  and  discussed,  and  their  influence  if  possible  injured 
for   purely  political  purposes.     An  aggrieved  person,  smarting 


"  punch:' 


267 


under  a  gross  injustice, 'does  not  "technically  assault"  the 
aggressor.  Had  Mr.  McNeill  tried  it  on  with  nie,  weak  and  ill 
as  1  was,  I  think  I  had  enough  power  to  oblige  him  ;  as  it 
happened,  I  only  saw  the  humour  of  the  thing. 

One  of  the  most  amusing  sketches  I  received  w^as  this  from 
Sir  Frank  Lockwood.  Lockwood  and  I  frequently  exchanged 
caricatures,  as  shown  by  the  clever  sketches  I  introduce  here 
and  there  in  these  pages.     Sometimes  he  sent  me  some  chaffing 


i  C; 


f 


LETTER   SUPPOSED   TO   COME   FROM   LORD   CROSS. 
(LOCK wood's  joke.) 

note  written  in  a  disguised  hand,  and  diso;uised  drawing;:  but 
the  latter  experiment,  although  it  failed  to  deceive,  certainly 
entertained  me  greatly.  Here  is  a  letter  supposed  to  be  from 
Lord  Cross,  a  favourite  subject  of  mine  when  he  was  in  the 
Lower  House.  Seldom  a  week  passed  l)ut  I  made  his  nose 
shorter  and  his  upper  lip  longer,  made  his  head  stick  out,  and 
his  spectacles  glisten.  Did  he  object  ?  No,  no  I  "Grand Cross" 
is  a  man  of  the  world  ;  nor  w^as  he  ever  a  mere  notoriety-seeking 
political  adventurer.  I  once  met  him  at  dinner,  and  we  chatted 
over  my  caricatures  of  him,  and  I  recollect  his  saying,  "  A  man 


268  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

is  not  worth  anything  if  he  is  thin-skinned,  and  certainly  not 
worth  much  if  he  cannot  enjoy  a  joke  at  his  own  expense." 

Sir  Frank  Lockwood  whiied  away  the  weary  hours  in  Parlia- 
ment to  his  own  amusement  and  those  around  him,  but  he  was 
not  aware  perhaps  that  what  he  did  was  seen  from  the  Ladies' 
Gallery.  The  ladies  got  a  birdseye  view  of  his  caricatures  in 
progress.  One  in  particular  was  the  cause  of  much  amusement, 
not  only  to  the  ladies,  but  to  the  Members.  My  lady  informant 
related  the  incident  to  me  thus  :  "  I  always  watch  Mr.  Lockwood 
sketching,  and  I  saw  he  had  his  eye  on  the  burly  figure  of  a 
friend  of  mine  sitting  on  the  Ministerial  bench.  Mr.  Gladstone 
turned  round  to  say  something  to  him,  and  his  quick  eye 
detected  Mr.  Lockwood  sketching.  The  artistic  Q.C.  handed 
the  sketch  (which  I  saw  was  a  caricature  of  the  late  Lord 
Advocate)  to  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  fairly  doubled  up  with  laughter, 
and  handed  it  to  those  on  either  side  of  him.  Eventually  it  was 
sent  over  to  Mr.  MacDonald  and  Mr.  Balfour,  and  they  thoroughly 
enjoyed  the  caricature  of  themselves,  as  did  all  their  Tory  friends. 
But  ive  had  seen  it  first  I "  It  may  have  been  this  sketch 
subsequently  sent  to  me  and  redrawn  in  Punch. 

I  recall  an  incident  which  happened  one  evening  when  I  was 
on  watch  in  the  Inner  Loljby  to  find  and  sketch  a  newly-elected 
M.P.,  who,  I  heard,  was  about  to  make  his  maiden  speech,  and  it 
was  most  important  I  should  catch  him.  Just  as  I  was  going 
up  to  the  Press  Gallery,  Sir  Frank  Lockwood  came  into  the 
Lol)by  and  ofi"ered  to  get  me  a  seat  under  the  Gallery  where  I 
could  see  the  new  M.P.  to  advantage.  The  new  M.P.  was  "  up," 
so  Lockwood  went  into  the  House  to  fetch  me  the  Sergeant's 
order.  I  waited  impatiently  for  his  return  ;  a  long  time  passed  ; 
still  I  waited.  A  smiling  Member  came  out  of  the  House,  and 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  Lockwood.  "  Oh,  rather,"  he  replied, 
smiling  still ;  "  I've  just  1)een  sitting  by  him,  watching  him 
make  a  capital  caricature  of  a  chap  making  his  maiden  speech." 
AVhen  the  Member  had  finished  liis  speech,  Lockwood  ran  out, 
and  cheeringly  apologised  to  me  for  liis  absent-mindedness.  "  So 
tempting,  you  know,  old  chap,  I  couldn't  resist  sketching  him  ! " 

Sir  Frank  Lockwood  was  perhaps  the  most  favouraljle  modern 


''PUNCH." 


269 


specimen  of  the  buoyant  amateur.  Possessing  a  big  heart,  kindly 
feeling,  a  brilliant  wit,  and  a  facile  pen,  he  treated  art  as  his 
playfellow  and  never  as  his  master.  And  in  the  spirit  in  which 
his  work  was  executed  so  must  it  be  judged.  The  work  of  an 
amateur  artist  possessing  a  distinct  vein  of  humour  is,  in  my 
opinion,  far  more  entertaining  than  that  of  the  professional 
caricaturist,  the  former  being  absolutely  spontaneous  and 
untrammelled  by  the  conscientiousness  of  subsequent  publication, 
of  correct  draughtsmanship,  made  only  from  impressions  of  the 
moment,  and  not  the  effort  (as  in  the  case  of 
many  a  professional  humorist)  of  having  to 
be  funny  to  order. 

An  excellent  example  of  the  amateur  at  his 
best  is  to  be  found  in  the  drawings  -of  Sir 
Frank  Lockwood.  No  one  would  resent  less 
than    Lockwood    himself  havinor   the   term 

o 

"  amateur  "  applied  to  his  work  ;  indeed,  he 
would,  I  am  sure,  have  felt  proud  to  be 
classed  in  the  same  category  as  several  of 
our  most  popular  humorous  artists. 

Circumstances  connected  with  a  curious 
coincidence  concerning  a  c  aricature  (what 
alliteration!)  are  worth  confirming. 

One  morning  I  was  taking  my  usual  horse 
exercise  round  the  ride  in  the  inner  circle 
of  Kegent's  Park,  before  that  spot,  once 
the  quiet  haunt  of  the  horseman,  became  the  noisy  ring  of  the 
cyclist.  At  that  time  a  few  cycling  beginners  used  the  circle  for 
practice.and  their  alarming  performances  were  gradually  depleting 
tlie  number  of  equestrians.  One  of  these  novices  came  down 
the  hill,  having  an  arm  round  the  neck  of  his  instructor,  and  one 
leg  on  the  pedal,  the  other  in  mid  air.  He  was  unable  to  steer 
the  machine,  and  as  I  cantered  up,  the  performer's  hat,  which 
had  been  over  one  eye,  fell  off,  disclosing  the  features  of  Pro- 
fessor Bryce.  The  next  moment  the  machine,  its  rider  and  his 
instructor,  were  "  all  of  a  heap  "  on  the  ride  up  which  my  horse 
was  cantering.      I  had  just  time  to  jump  my  horse  on  to  the  path 


SIR    F.    LOCKWOOD. 


270 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


and  thus  save  my  own  neck,  and  the  life  of  the  energetic  Member 
of  I'arliament,  who  I  noticed  hiter  in  the  day,  when  sitting  in  the 
Press  Gallery,  was  on  the  front  Opposition  bench,  next  to  Sir 
Frank  Lockwood,  quite  unconcerned.  I  made  a  rough  sketch  of 
the  incident  of  the  morning,  and  sent  it  down  to  my  brother  Two 
Pins,  Sir  Frank,  with  a  request  that  his  friend  Bryce  should  in 
future  select  some  other  spot  to  practise  bicycling.  This  was 
handed  to  Lockwood  just  as  he  was  leaving  the  House,  strange  to 

say,  on  his  way  home  to  dress  for  a 
dinner  at  Professor  Bryce's.  Lock- 
wood  mischievously  placed  the 
sketch  in  the  pocket  of  his  dress  coat, 
and  a,t  the  dinner  led  up  to  the  sub- 
ject ofcycling,  suggesting  at  the  same 
time  that  his  host  ought  to  try  it. 
'•'  Well,  strange  to  say,  Lockwood, 
r  ve  been  seriously  thinking  of  it,  but 
I  don't  know  how  one  should  begin." 
*'  Don't  you  ?  "  cried  Lockwood 
from  the  other  end  of  the  table. 
"  What  do  you  say  to  this,  nearly 
killing  my  friend  Harry  Furuiss  I  " 
And  my  caricature  was  produced 
and  handed  down  from  auest  to 
guest,  to  the  chagrin  of  the  host. 
That  was  Lockwood's  version  of 
the  coincidence. 

Suggestions  for  Punch  came  to 
me  from  most  unexpected  quarters,  l)ut  were  rarely  of  any  use. 
Lewis  Carroll — like  every  one  else — got  excited  over  the  Glad- 
stonian  crisis,  and  Sir  AYilliam  Harcourt's  head  to  Lewis  Carroll 
was  much  the  same  as  Charles  the  First's  to  Mr.  Dick  in  "  David 
Copperfield,"  for  I  find  in  several  letters  references  to  Sir  William. 

"  Fie  Gladstone's  liead  and  its  recent  growth,  couldn't  you  make  a  picture 
of  it  for  the  '  Essence  of  Parliament '  ?  I  would  call  it  '  Toby's  Dream  of 
A.D.  1900,'  and  have  Gladstone  addressing  the  House,  with  his  enormous 
liead  supported  l)y  Harcourt  on  one  side,  and  Parnell  on  the  other" 


LEWIS   CARROLL'S    SUGGESTION,   AND 
MY   SKETCH   OF   IT    IN   PUNCH. 


"PUXCH." 


271 


This  suggestion  is  the  only  one  I  adopted.  Strange  to  say, 
neither  Gladstone,  Parnell,  nor  Lewis  Carroll  lived  to  see  1900. 

"Is  that  anecdote  in  the  papers  tnie,  that  some  one  has  sent  you  a 
pebble  with  an  accidental  (and  not  a  '  doctored ')  likeness  of  Harcourt  ? 
If  so,  let  me  suggest  that  your  most  graceful  course  of  action  will  be  to 
have  it  photographed,  and  to  present  prints  of  it  to  any  authors  whose 
books  you  may  at  any  time  chance  to  illustrate  !  " 

This  is  the  "  anecdote  "  : 

"  Someone  found  on  the  seashore  the  other  day  a  pebble  moulded  exactly 
on  the  lines  of  Mr.  Furniss'  portrait  of  Sir  William  Harcourt." 

Other    notices    were    in    verse. 
This  from  Vanity  Fair  is  the  best  : 

"  For  Fame,  'tis  said.  Sir  William 
craves, 
And  to  some  purpose  he  has 
sought  her  ; 
His   face   is     fashioned   by  the 
waves  : 
When  will  his  name  be  '  writ 
in  water '  ?  " 

I  lay  under  a  charge  of  plagiarism. 
Nature  had  "invented"  my  Har- 
court portrait,  and  had  been  at  work 
upon  it  probably  before  I  was  born  ; 
the  wild  waves  had  by  degrees 
moulded  a  shell  into  the  familiar 
features,  and  when  completed  had 
left  the  sea-sculptured  sketch  high  and  dry  on  the  coast.  I  now 
publish,  with  thanks,  a  photo-reproduction  of  the  shell  (not  a 
pebble)  as  I  received  it :  it  is  not  in  any  way  "  doctored."  It 
is  a  large,  weather-beaten  shell. 

There  is  no  doubt  but  that  at  one  time  Lewis  Carroll  studied 
Punch,  for  in  one  of  his  earliest  letters  to  me  he  writes : 

"To  the  best  of  my  recollection,  one  of  the  first  things  that  suggested 
to  me  the  wish  to  secure  your  help  was  a  marvellously  successful  picture 
in  Punch  of  a  House  of  Lords  entirely  composed  of  Harcourts,  where  the 
figures  took  all  possible  attitudes,  and  gave  all  possible  views  of  the  face ; 
yet  each  w^as  a  quite  unmistakable  Sir  William  Harcourt !  " 


nature's  puzzle  portrait. 


2T2 


COXFESSIONS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


Again  he  refers  to  Paiich  (March,  1890)  : 

"  A  wish  has  been  expressed  in  our  Common  Koom  (Christ's  Church, 
Oxford),  where  we  take  in  and  bind  Punch,  that  we  could  have  'keys'  to 
the  portraits  in  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln's  Trial  and  the  '  ciphers  '  in  Parlia- 
ment" (a  Parliamentarydesignof  mine,  "The  House  all  Sixes  and  Sevens  "). 
"  Will  you  confer  that  favour  on  our  Club  ?  If  you  would  give  me  them 
done  roughly,  I  will  procure  copies  of  those  two  numbers,  and  subscribe 
the  names  in  small  MS.  print,  and  have  the  pages  bound  in  to  face  the 
pictures.  The  simplest  way  would  be  for  you  to  put  numbers  on  the  faces, 
and  send  a  list  of  names  numbered  to  correspond." 

Yet  a  few  years  brought  a  change  (October,  1894)  : 

"No  doubt  it  is  by  your  direction  that  three  numbers  of  your  new 
periodical  have  come  to  me.  With  many  thanks  for  your  kind  thought, 
I  will  beg  you  not  to  waste  your  bounties  on  so  unfit  a  recipient,  for  I  have 
neither  time  nor  taste  for  any  such  literature.  I  have  much  more  work 
yet  to  do  than  I  am  likely  to  have  life  to  do  it  in — and  my  taste  for  comic 
papers  is  defunct.  We  take  in  Punch  in  our  Common  Eoom,  but  I  never 
look  at  it !  " 

Hardly  a  generous  remark  to  make  to  a  Pimch  man  who 
had  iUustrated  two  of  his  books,  and  considering  that  Sir  John 
Tenniel  had  done  so  much  to  make  the  author's  reputation,  and 
Punch  had  always  l)een  so  friendly  ;  but  this  is  a  bygone. 


PUNCH   AT   PLAY. 

ell,  Sir  John,  the  Grand  Old  Man  of 
Punch,  the  evergreen,  the  ever- 
delightful  Sir  John,  has  earned 
a  night's  repose  after  all  his  long 
day  of  glorious  work  and  good- 
fellowship.  "  A  great  artist  and  a 
great  gentleman  "  :  truer  words 
were  never  spoken.  It  seems  but 
yesterday  lie  and  I  took  our  rides 
together  ;  but  yesterday  he  and  I 
and  poor  Milliken — three  Punch 

men  in  a  l)oat— were  "squaring  up"  at  Cookham  after  a  week's 

delightful  l)oating  holiday  on  the  Thames. 


''PUNCH: 


273 


"  There  sat  three  oarsmen  under  a  tree, 
Down,  a-down,  a-down — hey  down  ! 
They  were  as  puzzled  as  puzzled  could  be, 

"With  a  down  ; 
And  one  of  them  said  to  his  mate, 
'  We've  got  these  mems  in  a  doose  of  a  state,' 
With  a  down  derry,  derry  down  ! 


"  Oh,  they  were  wild,  these  oarsmen  three, 
Down,  a-down,  a-down — hey  down  ! 
Especially  one  with  the  white  puggree. 

With  a  down ; 
For  it's  precious  hard  to  divide  by  three 
A  sum  on  whose  total  you  can't  agree, 
With  a  down  derry,  derry  down  ! 


"  They  bit  their  pencils  and  tore  their  hair, 
Down,  a-down,  a-down — hey  down  ! 
But  those  blessed  bills,  they  wouldn't  come  square, 

With  a  down ; 
'Midst  muddle  and  smudge  it  is  hard  to  fix 
If  a  six  is  a  nine  or  a  nine  is  a  six. 
With  a  down  derry,  derry  down  ! 


C. — VOL.    I. 


274  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATUMIST. 

"  A  crumpled  account  from  a  pocket  of  flannel 
Down,  a-down,  a-do\vn — hey  down  ! 
With  dirt  in  dahs,  and  the  rain  in  a  channel, 

With  a  down, 
Is  worse  to  decipher  than  uniform  text, 
Oh,  that  is  the  verdict  of  oarsmen  vext, 
With  a  down  derry,  derry  down  ! 

"  A  man  in  a  boat  his  ease  will  take, 

Down,  a-down,  a-down— hey  down  ! 
But  financial  conscience  at  last  will  wake, 

With  a  down  ; 
Then  Nemesis  proddeth  the  prodigal  soul 
When  he  finds  that  the  parts  are  much  more  than  the  whole, 
With  a  down  derry,  derry  down ! 

"  Those  oarsmen  are  having  a  deuce  of  a  time, 
Down,  a-down,  a-down — hey  down  ! 
The  man  in  the  puggree  is  ripe  for  crime, 

With  a  down. 
Now  heaven  send  every  boating  man 
For  keeping  accounts  a  more  excellent  plan, 
With  a  down  derry,  derry  down  !  " 

So  pencilled  poet  Milliken.  "  The  man  in  the  puggree  "  is 
Sir  John — ripe  for  many  years  to  come,  and  when  he  has  another 
banquet,  may  I  be  there  to  see. 

The  Two  Pins  Club  was  a  Punch  institution. 

Original  notice  of 

"THE   TWO   PINS   CLUB. 

"  There  are  Coaching  Clubs,  Four-in-hand  Clubs,  Tandem  Clubs,  and 
Sporting  Clubs  of  all  sorts,  but  there  is  no  Equestrian  Club. 

"  The  object  of  the  present  proposed  Club  is  to  supply  this  want. 

"  The  Members  wall  meet  on  Sundays,  and  ride  to  some  place  within 
easy  reach  of  town  :   there  lunch,  spend  a  few  hours,  and  return. 

"  Due  notice  will  be  given  of  each  '  Meet,'  and  replies  must  be  sent  in  to 
the  Secretary  by  Wednesday  afternoon  at  latest.  When  it  is  considered 
necessary,  Luncheon  will  l)e  ordered  beforehand  for  the  party,  and  those 
who  liave  neglected  to  reply  by  the  time  fixed,  and  wlio  do  not  attend  the 
Meet,  will  l)e  charged  with  their  share  of  the  Luncheon. 

"  There  will  be  other  Meets  l)esides  those  on  Sundays,  wjvich  will  be 
arrantred  hv  tlie  ^lembers  from  time  to  time. 


"  puxciir 


275 


"  The  title  of  the  Club  is  taken  from  the  names  of  the  two  most  celebrated 
English  Equestrians  known  to  '  the  road,'  viz.  : — 

'"DICK   TUEPIxV 

AND 

'"JOHN  GILPIxY.' 
"  The  Members  of  '  THE  TWO  PINS '  will  represent  all  the  dash  of 
the  one  and  all  the  respectability  of  the  other. 
"  The  original  Members  at  present  are  : — 

Mr.  F.  C.  BUENAND. 
Mr.  JOHN  TENNIEL. 
Mr.  LINLEY  SAMBOUENE. 
Mr.  HAEEY  FUENISS. 
Mr.  E.  LEHMANN. 
"  It  is  not  proposed  at  first  to  exceed  the  number  of  twelve.     The  other 
names  down  for  invitation  to  become  members  are — 

Mr.  FEANK  LOCKWOOD,  Q.C,  M.P. 
Mr.  JOHN  HAEE.=:= 
Sir   CHAELES  EUSSELL,  Q.C,  M.P. 
"  We  hope  you  will  join.      The  eight  Members  can  then  settle  a  con- 
venient day  for  the  first  Meet,  and  inaugurate  the  TWO  PINS  CLUB. 
"  -  N.B.     No  hounds." 

The  Two  Pins  Clul)  was  started  in  1890,  and  flourished  until 
its  President,  Lord  Eussell,  was  elevated  to  the  Bench.  My 
only  claim  for 
distinction  in 
connection 
with  it  rests 
on  the  fact  that 
I  was  the  only 
member  who, 
except  when  I 
was  in  mid- 
Atlantic  on  my 
return  from  the 
States,  never 
missed  a  meet. 

Were  the  Club  now  a  going  concern,  I  would,  of  course,  refrain 
from  mentioning  it,  but  as  it  is  referred  to  in  the  "  History  of 

T  2 


LORD   IIUSSELL  S   ACCEPTANCE    TO   DINE   WFIH   ME. 


27G  COXFESSJOXS    OF   A    CARICATURIST. 

Punch''  by  Mr.  Spiclniaini,  and  in  "John  Hare,  Comedian," 
by  Mr.  Pemberton,  I  may  be  pardoned  and  also  forgiven  for 
repeating  the  one  joke  ever  made  public  in  connection  with  this 
remarkal)le  Club. 

One  afternoon  our  cavalcade  was  approaching  Weybridge, 
which  had  been  the  scene  of  the  boyish  pranks  of  one  of  our 
meni])ers.  To  the  amusement  of  us  all,  this  brother  Two  Pins, 
as  reminiscences  of  the  district  were  recalled  to  him  by  one 
<)l>ject  and  another,  grew  terribly  excited. 

"  Ah,  my  boys,  there  is  the  dear  old  oak  tree  under  which 
I  smoked  my  first  cigarette  !  And  there,  where  the  new  churdi 
stands,  I  shot  my  first  snipe.  Dear  me,  how  all  is  altered  !  I 
wonder  if  old  Sir  Henry  Tomkins  still  lives  in  the  Lodge  there, 
and  what  has  become  of  the  Rector's  pretty  daughter  ?  "  etc. 

Sir  Frank  Lockwood,  observing  lettering  on  the  side  of  a 
house,  "  General  Stores,"  casually  asked  our  excited  reminiscent 
friend  if  he  "  knew  a  General  Stores  about  these  parts?" 

"  General  Stores  !  Of  course  I  do,  but  he  was  only  a  Captain 
when  I  lived  here  I  " 

When  the  members  lunched  at  The  Durdans  our  host  and 
honorary  member,  Lord  Rosebery,  remarked  that  it  was  a 
Clul)  of  *'one  joke  and  one  horse ! "  the  fact  being  that  we  all 
drove  over  from  Tad  worth,  Lord  Russell's  residence,  where  we 
were  staying,  with  the  exception  of  Lord  Russell  himself,  who 
rode.  We  had,  of  course,  each  a  horse  :  some  of  the  members 
a  great  deal  more  than  one,  lait  we  were  careful  to  trot  out  one 
joke  between  us  :  "  General  Stores  "  became  our  general  and 
only  story. 

The  first  public  announcement  respecting  the  Club  appeared 
in  the  Daily  Telegraph,  the  4th  of  ]\Iay,  1891  : 

"The  T.P.C.  held  its  first  annual  meeting  at  the  'Star  and 
Garter  Hotel '  yesterday  morning.  There  was  a  full  attendance 
(»f  members.  Under  the  carefid  and  conciliatory  guidance  of 
the  President,  Sir  Charles  Russell,  supported  mainly  by  Mr. 
F.  C.  Burnand,  Mr.  Frank  Lockwood,  ]\lr.  Harry  Furniss, 
Mr.  K(hv[ird  Lawsc^i,  ]\lr.  Charles  Matliews,  Mr.  John  Hare, 
^Ir.    Lirilev    Sanibouriic,    and    ^Ir.    R.    Ticliniann    (hon.    sec), 


''Punch:' 


277 


the  customary  l)usiness  was  satisfactorily  transacted,  and  the 
principal  subjects  for  discussion  were  dealt  with  in  a  spirit  of 


2'his  sJceich  is  a  i^ropos  of  Mr. 
Linley  8aml)ourne^s  partrait 
in  "  Vanity  Fair.''''  Note 
refers  to  his  teing  made 
Solicitor-  General. 


26,  Lennox  Qardens. 
Pont  St  S¥ 


intelligent  self-con- 
trol. Mr.  Arthur 
Russell  was  unani- 
mously elected  a 
member  of  the  as- 
sociation, which  in 
point  of  numbers  is 
now  complete." 

But  the  object  of 
the  Club  being  care- 
fully concealed, 
much  mystery  sur- 
rounds its  name. 
Few  were  aware  that 
it  was  merely  a  band 
of  "  Sontag-Reiters. ' ' 
Our  hon.  sec,  being 
at  the  time  pro- 
minent in  politics, 
received  congratula- 
tions from  those  who 
imagined  the  T.P.C. 
derm  en  t  was  excited 


4^ 


was  a  political  association,  and  much  won- 
l)y  the  decidedly  enigmatical  appellation 


27K  VOXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARWATU HIST. 

of  the  small  jind  select  society.  Sir  Edward  Lawson  showed 
marked  ingenuity  in  retaining  the  mystery  ])y  his  paragraj^hs 
in  his  paper.  The  first  meet  of  our  second  season  was  the 
only  one  1  missed  during  the  years  the  Clul)  existed  : 

"The  first  meeting  of  the  T.P.C.  for  the  season  of  1892 
took  place  yesterday  at  the  'Star  and  Garter  Hotel/  under  the 
presidency  of  Sir  Charles  Kussell,  who  was  assisted  in  the 
performance  of  his  duties  by  Mr.  Frank  Lockwood,  Mr.  Linley 
Sambourne,  Mr.  Edward  Lawson,  and  Mr  C.  W.  Mathews. 
The  arrangements  for  the  season  were  completed,  and  a  digest 
was  made  of  the  subjects  which  claimed  the  immediate  con- 
sideration of  the  members.  The  President  called  attention  to 
a  delay  wliicli  had  occurred  in  the  fulfilment  of  certain  artistic 
duties  which  had  lieen  entrusted  to  Mr. 
Harry  Furniss  and  Mr.  Linley  Sambourne, 
and  which  had  been  retarded  in  their  accom- 
plishment by  Mr.  Furniss'  voyage  to  America. 
But  it  was  understood  that  immediate  atten- 
tion would  liow  be  bestowed  upon  the  w^ork  in 
hand  ;  and  the  remainder  of  the  business  was 
ME.  LINLEY  SA3I-      of  ^  ^outine  character."   ^      , 

BOURNE.  The  "  artistic  duties  "  referred  to,  I  have 

no  recollection  of,  but   I   know  that  at  our 

preliminary  meeting,  when  all  matters^   artistic  and  otherwise, 

Avere    discussed   and   arranged,    the   two    following   important 

resolutions  w^ere  proposed,  seconded,  and  carried  unanimously  : — 

"  That  Mr.  Kudolph  Lehmann  be  elected  Permanent  Secretary,  and  that 
the  duty  of  sending  out  all  notices  convening  the  Meets  of  the  T.P.C,  as 
well  as  all  arrangements  connected  with  the  Clul),  be  entrusted  to  him ; 
and  that  every  notice  of  meeting  l)e  posted  and  prepaid  by  him  eight  lunar, 
or  at  least  three  calendar,  days  before  the  date  of  each  INIeet ;  and  further, 
that  records  in  a  neat  and  clerkly  style  of  each  and  every  Meet  be  faith- 
fully kept  by  the  said  Secretary,  and  be  at  all  times  open  for  the  inspection 
of  each  and  every  mem])er  of  the  T.P.C." 

"  That  Mr.  Linley  Sambourne  shall  provide  at  his  own  expense  the  note- 
paper  and  envelopes  required  for  tlie  business  of  the  Club,  and  shall  invent 
and  draw  a  design,  Avhicli  design,  also  at  his  own  expense,  he  shall 
cause  to  be  stamped  or  otherwise  engraved  on  the  said  notepaper  and 
envelopes,   and   sliall  cause  tlie  said  notepaper  so  stamped    or  engraved 


''PUNCHY  279 

to  be  fonvarded  to  the  Perpetual  President,  the  Permanent  Secretary,  and 
the  other  members,  for  use  in  connection  only  with  the  business  of  the 
Club." 

"  It  was  further  resolved  that  all  maps  and  charts  be  kept  at  the 
Secretary's  Office,  and  in  the  event  of  any  dispute,  the  Ordnance  Map  or 
the  Admiralty  Chart  shall  be  decisive." 

But  during  the  existence  of  the  Club  there  never  was  any 
cause  to  refer  to  an  Ordnance  Map  or  Admiralty  Chart.  There 
never  was  a  Secretary's  Office,  nor  did  Mr.  Linley  Sambourne 
either  design  or  provide  the  notepaper  or  envelopes,  nor  are 
there  any  records  in  existence,  either  printed  or  written  "in  a 
neat  and  clerkly  style,"  of  the  merry  meetings  of  this  unique 
Club.     It  ran    its    delio-htful  and    danajerous  course,    its    wild 


PORTRAIT   OF   ME   AS   A  MEMBER   OF   THK   TWO   PINS   CLUB, 
BY   LINLEY    SAMBOURNE. 

career,  unmarred  by  any  dispute  or  accident.     The  last  "  meet " 
was  to  dine  Lord  Kussell  on  his  elevation  to  the  Bench. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  occasion  on  which  I  saw  the  late 
Lord  Kussell.  It  was  in  the  old  days  when  the  Law  Courts 
were  in  Westminster, — and  I,  in  search  of  "character,"  strangely 
enough  found  myself  wandering  about  the  Divorce  Court,  where 
so  many  characters  are  lost.  It  was  a  cause  celehve, — the 
divorce  suit  of  a  most  distinguished  Presbyterian  cleric  who 
charged  his  wife,  the  co-respondent  being  the  stable-boy. 
Kussell  (then  plain  Mr.)  was  for  the  clergyman,  and  when  I 
entered  the  crowded  court,  he  was  in  the  midst  of  his  appeal 


280 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


to  the  jury,  working  himself  up  to  ca  pitcli  of  eloquence,  appealing 
to  all  to  look  upon  the  saintly  figure  of  the  man  of  prayer 
(the  plaintiff,  who  was  jjlaying  the  part  by  kneeling  and  clasping 
his  hands),  and  asking  the  jury  to  scorn  all  idea  of  his  client 
having  any  desire  to  free  himself  of  his  wife  so  as  to  marry  his 
pretty  governess,  or  cousin,  or  whomever  it  was  suggested  he 
most  particularly  admired.  Russell  had  arrived  at  quoting 
Scripture, — he  was  at  his  Lest,  austere,  eloquent,  persuasive,  an 

orator,  a  gentleman,  a  great 
advocate,  and  as  sanctiaionious 
as  his  kneeling  client. 

He  was  interrupted  by  someone 
handing  him  a  teleorram.  As 
he  opened  it  he  said,  waving  it 
towards  his  client,  "This  may  l)e 
a  messasfe  from  Heaven  to  that 
saint,  —  ah,  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  the    words  so   pure — so — 

so "  (he  reads  the  telegram). 

"D I   D 1   D I" 

He  crushed  the  telegram  in  his 
hand,  and  with  an  angry  gesture 
threw  it  away.  Although  his 
words  were  drowned  by  the 
"  laughter  in  Court,"  his  gestures 
and  face  showed  his  chagrin  and 
disgust.  The  Grand  National  had  been  run  half-an-hour  before. 
Years  afterwards,  on  his  own  lawn  at  Tadworth,  I  told  him  of 
this  incident,  and  asked  him  what  the  contents  of  that  telegram 
were.  He  declared  I  was  wrong,  such  an  incident  never 
occurred  in  his  career.  I  convinced  him  I  was  right — it  was 
the  first  time  I  saw  him,  and  every  detail  was  vividly  impressed 
upon  my  memoiy.  After  dinner  he  came  to  me  and  said, 
"  Furniss,  I  have  been  thinkino-  over  that  incident.  You  are 
quite  right — it  has  all  come  back  to  me.  I  lost  my  temper,  I 
recollect,  l;ecause  I  had  wired  to  my  boy  over  there  to  make  a 
bet  for  me  on  an  outsider  at  a  long  price ;  when  at  lunch,  I 


THE  LATE  LORD  IIUSSELL,  THE 
PRESIDENT  OF  THE  TWO  PIXS 
CLUB. 


''PUXCIir  281 

heard  the  horse  had  won.  I  was  delighted,  and  therefore  at 
my  best  when  I  addressed  the  jury.  The  telegram  was  from 
my  boy  to  say  that  he  forgot  to  put  the  money  on  !  " 

Riding  has  caused  my  appearance  in  a  Police  Court,  but  not 
as  a  mem1)er  of  the  Two  Pins  Club.  In  October,  1895,  I  was 
returning  from  my  usual  ride  before  breakfast,  accompanied  by 
my  little  daughter;  we  turned  into  the  terrace  in  Avhicli  we 
live,  and  our  horses  cantered  up  the  hill  about  120  yards.  As 
we  were  dismounting,  a  Police  Inspector  passed,  addressing 
me  by  name,  and  in  a  most  offensive  tone  declared  that  he 
would  summon  me,  as  I  had  been  cautioned  before  for  furious 
riding.  This  remark  was  so  al)Solutely  untrue  that  I  met  the 
summons,  and  the  Inspector  in  the  Court  made  three  distinct 
statements  on  oath  :  That  I  spurred  my  horse  (when  cross- 
examined  by  me,  he  gave  a  minute  description  of  my  spurs)  ; 
that  I  charged  up  the  hill  2.50  yards  at  the  rate  of  sixteen  miles 
an  hour ;  and  that  I  had  been  cautioned  before  for  the  same 
thing.  Now,  I  have  never  been  cautioned  in  my  life ;  the 
distance  I  went  up  the  hill  is  120  yards,  and  no  horse  could 
get  up  any  pace  in  that  distance ;  and  I  do  not  wear  spurs, 
althouoh  two  constables  sw^ore  I  did. 

o 

The  magistrate,  fjice  to  face  with  these  three  facts,  looked  the 
picture  of  misery.  It  was  evident  to  him,  as  it  must  be  evident 
to  every  fair-minded  man,  that  the  police  were  in  the  wrong. 
And  when  the  magistrate  was  thinkinsf  out  this  dilemma,  I  made 
a  fcital  mistake.  I  gave  my  reason  for  appearing  as  a  sacrifice 
on  my  part  to  show  the  magistrate  the  sort  of  evidence  upon 
which  poor  cabmen  and  others  are  fined  and  made  to  suffer. 
The  magistrate,  Mr.  Plowden,  waxed  very  wroth,  and  as  he 
could  not  punish  me,  and  would  not  reprimand  the  police, 
I  was  asked  to  pay  the  costs  of  the  summons,  which  was 
withdrawn.  The  late  Mr.  Montagu  Williams,  who  sat  in  the 
Marylebone  Police  Court,  the  court  in  which  I  Avas  charged  with 
furious  riding,  gave  it  as  his  private  opinion  that  the  longer 
a  policeman  was  in  the  service  the  less  he  could  rely  upon 
his  word. 


2S2 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


This  case  led  to  all  sorts  of  trouble.  I  was  assailed  by  people 
in  the  street,  strangers  to  nie,  for  "  riding  over  children." 
T.etters  came  from  all  sorts  of  societies — Cruelty  to  Animals, 

and  other  excellent 
institutions.  I  found 
people  measuring  the 
terrace  ;  others  riding 
up  it  to  see  if  it  were 
possible  to  get  the  pace 
(which  it  is  not),  but 
few  knew  the  truth. 
The  constable  when  I 
left  the  court  remarked 
to  me,  "I'll  tache  ye 
to  caricature  Oirish- 
men  in  Parleymint !  " 
However,  I  Avas  re- 
paid by  the  humour 
the  incident  o;ave  rise 
to  in  the  imagination 
of  my  brother  workers 
on  the  Press.  Mr. 
F.  C.  Gould  made  this  capital  sketch,  and  others  portrayed  my 
crime  in  verse.  The  following  was  written  to  me  by  one  of 
London's  most  celebrated  editors,  and  has  never  been  published 
before  : 

"  H.  Furniss  was  an  artist  gent 
Of  credit  and  renown, 
AVho'd  ride  a  horse  up  Primrose  Hill 
With  any  man  in  town. 

"  The  morn  was  fine  as  morn  coidd  he 
Upon  last  Thursday  week, 
And,  like  the  early  morn,  H.  F. 
Was  up  hefore  the  heak. 

"  (Full  little  dreamed  that  worthy  cit. 
Some  dozen  mornings  hence 
He  would  be  '  up  hefore  the  heak  ' 
In  (juite  anotlier  sense.) 


"  FURIOUS   RIDIXG."       SKETCH   BY   F.    C.    GOULD 

From  the  "  Westmhifiier  GazeUfT 


''PUXCir'  283 


"  Upon  two  tits  of  pranksome  mood, 
The  gallant  Lika  Joko 
And  Likajokalina  rode, 
'  Desipere  in  loco.' 

"  '  Cantare  pares  '  rode  the  pair, 
'  x\d  equitatum  nati,' 
But  to  a  bobby's  summons  not 
'  Eespondere  parati.' 

"  So  'appy  rode  the  blithesome  pair, 
They  scoured  the  hill  and  plain. 
And  warming  with  their  morning's  work, 
Eode  hotly  home  again. 

"  But  by  the  slope  of  Primrose  Hill 
The  rude  Inspector  Eoss 
Beheld  H.  Furniss  canter  up 
Upon  his  foaming  boss. 

"  '  Look  'ere,  young  man,'  says  he  to  him, 
'  There  are  some  children  desir 
That  by  the  ridin'  of  you  folk 
Do  go  in  bod'ly  fear. 

"  '  Your  hasting  steed  pull  up,  I  say  ! 
S'welp  me,  draw  your  rein  ! 
The  innocents  abroad,  young  man. 
Are  frightened  by  you  twain. 

"  '  Look  at  yer  smokin'  job  'oss  'ere — 
I  seen  you  job  'is  flank  ! 
'E's  well  nigh  done — tyke  'im  away, 
And  back  upon  the  rank.' 

"  H.  Furniss  fixed  him  with  his  eye ; 
His  brow  was  awful  cross  ; 
He  Kyrled  his  lip  contemptuous-like 
At  this  rude  man  of  Eoss. 

"  '  The  spirit  of  my  gallant  cob, 
Euffian,  you  shall  not  squelch  ; 
I  ride  nor  Scotch  nor  Irish  hot. 
But  Furniss-heated  Welsh. 

"  'Mine  and  my  daughter's  gentle  pace 
Could  not  affright  a  foundling  ; 
Be  off,  and  peep  down  areas,  or 

Move  on  some  harmless  groundling !  '  * 


284  COXFESSlOy.S   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

"  The  Inspector  glared  :  '  Come,  Mr.  F., 
We  can't  stand  this  no  longer ; 
I  summons  you  to  Marylehone  ' — 
(He  muttered  something  stronger). 


"  Good  Mr.  Plowden  heard  the  charge, 
As  two  policemen  swore  it ; 
Then  heard  H.  Furniss'  defence, 
And  sagely  pondered  o'er  it. 

"  *  The  Inspector  swears  you  galloped  up  ; 
You  swear  you  merely  trotted  : 
My  own  opinion  in  this  case 
Is,  as  usual,  Gordian-knotted. 

"  '  Now  Gordian  knots  were  tied  to  l)e 
By  magistrates  divided  ; 
^Ye  cut  them — and  the  severed  ends 
Do  much  as  once  the  tied  did. 

"  '  In  this  case,  add  the  paces  up. 
And  then  divide  by  two  : 
A  canter  is  the  quotient ; 
I  think  that  that  should  do. 

"  '  A  sound  decision  that  will  please 
Both  parties  this  I  trust  is  ; 
It  is  a  fine  distinction,  but 
Avoids  the  fires  of  justice. 

"  '  You,  Mr.  Furniss,  must  disburse 
Two  bob  costs  to  my  till. 
And  promise  me  to  try  no  more 
Primi'ose  babes  to  kill. 

"  '  And  all  in  Court,  take  warning  by 
The  furious  Canterer's  fate, 
And  go  not  up  the  Primrose  path 
At  such  an  awful  rate. 

"  '  But  if  your  sluggish  livers  you 
Must  vigorously  shake, 
"  Vigor's  Horse  Exercise  at  Home  " 
(Vide  Prospectus)  take.'  " 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  magistrate  did  not  look  at  the  charge- 
sheet,  or  know  me,  or  catcli  my  name,  or  lie  might  have  made 
his  usual  joke  at  my  expense  in  nnothcr  way. 


''PUNcnr 


285 


Mr.  Burnand  and  I  rode  a  great  deal  together.     Avoiding  the 
Row,  my  editor  preferred  to  ride  to  Hampstead,  Harrow,  or  Mill 
Hill,  calling  for  me  on  the  way. 
Once,  when   I   could  not   ride, 
he  wrote  :  "  Very  sorry  to  hear 
of  your  being  laid  up  with  a 
cold ;    it  shows  what  even  the 
Wisest  and  Best  amono-st  us  are 
liable  to.    The  idea  is  monstrous 
of  a    Cold  Furniss.     A  coaVd 
furniss    is   satisfactory.      Don't 
take   too  much   out  of  yourself 
with    riding.      '  He    speaks    to 
thee  who  hath  not  got  a  horse ' — Shakespeare." 
later  a  specimen  of  his  irrepressible  good  humour 


<^  Jfi(i     (h.  A^-"-*^*- 


MY   PORTRAIT,    BY   F.   C.    BURXAND. 


Then  follows 


22  2soi\ 


""Alas  and  alack ! 
I've  got  a  hack, 
But  the  weather's  been  such, 
I've  not  got  on  his  back. 

"  I  got  no  jog 
Because  of  the  fog. 
And  up  to  twelve, 

In  breeches  and  boots, 
Which  I  had  to  shelve 
And  recover  my  foots. 
I  lunched  at  the  '  G  ' 
(So  there  was,  you  see, 
One  Gee  for  me). 

"  Then  I  came  back 

And  wrote  some  play 
But  oh,  good  lack  ! 
No  riding  to-day. 
If  foggy  here, 
At  Eamsgate  'twas  clear. 


Alas  and  alack  I 
I'll  sell  my  hack. 

Much  to  my  sorrow. 

I'll  ride  to-morrow, 


286 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


That  is,  if  fine, 

But  not  at  nine. 
I  shall  not  start,  if  I'm  alive 
And  have  the  lieai't,  till  ten  forty-five. 

"  Away  to  parks  I'll  trot 
To  get  a  little  hot. 
Also  to  get  a  little  dirty. 
And  with  you  he  11.30. 

"  Till  one. 
Then  done. 

Back  to  Lunch, 
Then  to  Office  of  Punch. 
This  my  plan,  you'll  be  happy  to  learn,  is 
At  your  disposal,  Mr.  Furniss." 

But  excursions  in  search  of  material  my  editor  and  I  had  to 
do  on  foot,  and  were  not  so  pleasing ;  still,  Mr.  Burnand  always 
managed  to  have  his  little  joke  in  all  circumstances. 

One  day  he  and  I  were  "  doing "  the  picture  shows  in  the 
interests  of  Mr.  Punch.  At  one  o'clock,  feeling  jaded  and 
tired,  a  retreat  to  the  Garrick  Club  to  lunch 
was  suggested.  "  Happy  thought !  "  said  my 
editor.  "  Better  still,  here  is  an  invitation 
for  two  to  the  Exhibition  of  t^rench  Cookery 
at  Willis's  Kooms.  Capital  lunch  there,  I 
should  think."  So  off  we  went,  anticipating 
a  recherclifs  lunch.  Fancy  our  chagrin  on 
arrival  to  find  cooks  galore,  discussing  their 
art,  but,  alas !  their  art,  like  the  high  art  of 
the  ]\Iasters  of  the  Brush  in  our  National 
Gallery,  was  all  under  glass  !  Aggravatingly 
appetising,  but  absolutely  uninteresting  to 
the  two  hungry  nrt  critics.  We  soon  were 
in  a  cab  and  at  the  Garrick.  As  we  pulled 
up,  the  greatest  gourmet  of  the  Club,  that  clever  actor,  Arthur 
Cecil,  greeted  us  : 

"Hallo,  Frank,  where  Lave  you  two  come  from  ?" 
"Oh,  Arthur,  iiudi  luck!     Furniss  and  I  have  just  had  the 
most  rccltercJiL'  lunch  you  could  imagine." 


''FUNCIir  287 

"  H'ni — liullo — b'm — where  ?  The  deuce  you  have  !  Lucky 
ilofjs  !     Eh,  what  was  it  hke  I  " 

"  Oh,  you  can  see  it  for  yourself ;  it's  going  on  now  at 
the  French  Cookery  Exhibition  in  AVillis's  Eooms.  Special 
invitation — ah,  here's  a  ticket." 

"  Thanks,  old  chap !  what  a  treat !  I'm  off  there  !  No,  no  ; 
you  fellows  mustn't  pay  the  cab — I'll  do  that.  Here,  driver — 
Willis's  Kooms — look  sharp !  " 

Artliur  Cecil  undoubtedly  was  a  quaint  fellow  and  a  clever 
actor,  bat  he  had  an  insatiable  appetite.  One  would  never  have 
thought  so,  judging  from  appearance  :  his  clever,  clean-cut  face, 
his  small,  thin  fio;ure,  together  with  the  little  hand-bao-  lie 
always  carried,  rather  suggested  a  lawyer  or  a  clergyman.  His 
eccentricity  was  a  combination  of  absent-mindedness  and  irrit- 
ability. The  latter  failing,  he  told  me,  would  at  times  talic 
complete  control  of  him  :  for  instance,  he  had  to  leave  a  train 
before  his  journey  was  completed,  as  he  felt  it  impossible  to  sit 
in  the  carriage  and  look  at  the  alarm  bell  without  pulling  it. 
I  have  watclied  him  seated  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  club 
we  both  attended,  in  which  the  star-light  in  the  centre  of 
the  ceiling  was  shaded  by  a  rather  primitive  screen  of  stretched 
tissue  paper,  gazing  at  it  for  half-an-hour  at  a  time,  and 
eventually  taking  all  the  coins  out  of  his  pocket  to  throw 
them  one  after  another-  at  the  immediate  object  of  his  irrita- 
tion. He  frecjuently  succeeded  in  penetrating  the  screen,  the 
coins  remaining  on  the  top  of  it,  to  the  delight  of  the  astonished 
waiters. 

His  eccentricity — perhaps  I  ought  to  say  in  this  case  his 
absent-mindedness  —  is  illustrated  by  an  incident  which 
happened  on  the  morning  of  the  funeral  of  a  great  friend  of 
his.  As  Cecil  (his  real  name  was  Blount)  was  having  his  bath, 
he  was  suddenly  inspired  with  some  idea  for  a  song  ;  so,  pulling 
his  sponge-bath  into  the  adjoining  sitting-room  closer  to  the 
piano,  he  placed  a  chair  in  it,  and  sat  down  to  try  it  over.  A 
fricnd,  rushing  in  to  fetch  him  to  the  funeral,  found  him  so 
seated,  singing  and  playing,  balancing  the  dripping  sponge  on 
the  top  of  his  head. 


I'H.s  COXFESSIOXS    OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

'J1IE   CARICATURING   OF   PICTURES. 


0  feed  upon  one's  own  kind  is 
a  custom  which,  like  so  many 
other  vestiges  of  a  previous 
civilisation,  seems  in  the 
present  day  to  have  a  fair 
chance  of  revival.  We  have 
long  had  with  us  the  City 
Cannil)nl,  the  Fleet  Street 
Cannibal,  the  Dramatic, 
Literary  and  Musical  Canni- 
bals. Latterly  the  Society  Cannibal  has  come  more  distinctly 
to  the  front.  Then  why,  I  long  ago  asked  myself,  should 
there  not  be  the  Cannibal  of  the  etching  pen  and  the  brush  ? 
Especially  as  the  writhing  victims  of  those  mighty  instru- 
ments a])pear  to  be  so  enamoured  of  their  ftite  as  to  besiege 
tliat  comic  slaughter-honse,  the  studio  of  tlie  caricaturist,  and 
with  persistent   cries  of  "Eat  us  I   eat  us!      Our   turn  next!'"' 


THE    PICTURE    SHOWS. 

Jjcsiiii)  fidin    ^^  Punch,'" 


"PUNGHr 


289 


jJiLlli  JL  i  9L}k 


solicit  the  "  favour  of  not  being  forgotten  "  in  his  next  batch 
of  "  subjects." 

It  may  be  a  revelation  to  many  of  my  readers,  but  I  can 
assure  them  it  is  a  fact,  that  it  is  only  in  very  exceptional  cases 
that  artists  object  to  having  their  pictures  caricatured.  Indeed, 
many  of  the  leading  painters  have  given  me  to  understand  that 
the  omission  of  their  work  from  my  sketches  would  be  anything 
but  agreeable  to  them,  although,  when  the  desired  travesties  of 
their    pictures     appear, 

they  may  pretend  to  be  -— -^ 

highlyindignant.  There 
is  one  Royal  Academi- 
cian of  my  acquaintance 
who  has  so  keen  an 
appreciation  of  humour 
that  he  never  loses  an 
opportunity  of  giving 
me  a  hint  Avhen  his 
magnifying  glass  has 
detected  the  slio-litest 
element  of  the  grotesque 
in  a  fellow  artist's  work. 
And  that  most  amiable 
of  men,  the  late  Frank 
Holl,  could  never  re- 
frain, when  occasion 
offered,  from  directing 
my    attention    to    the 

humorous  points  of  his  sitters,  although  I  need  hardly  add 
that  no  trace  of  his  having  perceived  them  was  ever  apparent  in 
any  of  his  works.  Do  artists  object  "?  Wei],  in  Punch,  May, 
1889,  du  Maurier  touches  this  point : 

"What  our  artist  (the  awfully  funny  one)  has  to  put  up  with: 
Brown  :  '  I  say,  look  here !  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  by 
caricaturing  my  pictures — hay  ? '  Jones  :  '  Yes,  confound  you  ! 
and  not  caricaturing  mine  ! ' " 

I  have  even  known  artists  so  anxious  to  be  parodied  that,  if 

C. — VOL.   I.  u 


Xaw    e.     <<.~^.■'>-^  '-'^^*-*^  e^-.^CZ 


290  CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

they  happened  to  have  a  vein  of  humour  in  their  pencils,  they 
would  actually  send  nie  caricatures  of  their  own  pictures.  Even 
poor  Fred  Barnard  once  sent  me  an  admirable  sketch,  carica- 
turing an  excellent  portrait  of  his  three  children  which  he  had 
painted  for  the  Royal  Academy,  where  it  duly  appeared.  Others 
less  humorously  imaginative  perhaps  have  written  to  me  assuring 
me  of  the  great  pleasure  which  would  have  been  theirs  had  they 
themselves  conceived  the  idea  which  my  caricature  of  their  work 
supplied. 

Although,  however,  there  are  so  few  artists  who  object  to 
having  their  pictures  caricatured,  there  is,  of  course,  another  side 
to  the  question.  It  is  indeed  most  true  that  nothing  kills  like 
ridicule,  and  in  the  course  of  my  experience  I  have  found  it  is 
just  as  easy  unconsciously  to  inflict  an  injury  with  my  pen  and 
Indian  ink  as  it  is  to  do  good.  Let  us  suppose,  for  instance, 
that  a  great  painter  has  just  finished  a  very  sentimental  work 
- — a  picture  so  brimful  of  beauty  and  pathos  that  it  appeals 
to  everybody,  myself  included.  As  I  stand  before  it,  and  admire, 
it  is  impossible  perhaps  for  me  to  restain  a  sympathetic  tear 
from  making  its  appearance  in,  at  all  events,  one  of  my  eyes. 
But  how  about  the  other  '{  Ah  !  with  regard,  to  that  other  eye, 
I  must  confess  it  is  very  diff"erently  employed,  and,  superior  to 
my  control,  is  searching  the  canvas  high  and  low  for  that 
"  something  ridiculous  "  which,  except  in  the  case  of  the  very 
greatest  mastei's,  is  always  there.  Now  what  ensues '{  The 
purchaser  of  that  picture,  who,  mark  you,  unlike  myself,  regarded 
it  and  admired  it  with  both  of  his  eyes,  congratulates  himself 
upon  its  acquisition.  I  have  known  it  for  a  fact,  however — to 
my  regret — that  after  the  publication  of  the  caricature  the 
purchaser  ^^'as  never  able  to  look  at  his  picture  again  through 
his  own  glasses,  and  bitterly  regretted  his  outlay. 

An  art  publisher  with  whom  I  was  acquainted  agreed  to  pay 
a  heavy  sum  for  the  cop}'right  of  a  work  of  a  Avell-known  and 
popular  painter,  and  after  the  caricature  had  appeared  in  Punch 
he  resolved  to  forego  the  publication  of  the  engraving  from  it  by 
which  ]h'  had  ho[)ed  to  rccou[)  his  expenditure,  l)ecause  he  con- 
sidered that  the  sol)riety  of  the  work  was  so  completely  destroyed 


fr-^f.-rj- 


..yr- 


•J> 


THE   GREAT   BACCARAT    CASE.       MY   SKETCH    IN   PENCIL   MADE   IX   COURT,    AKD 
CONGRATULATORY   NOTE    FROM   THE    EDITOR    OF   PUNCH. 


U    2 


"  PUNCH r 


293 


as  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  sale ;  and  an  eminent  sculptor, 
who  was  responsible  for  a  well-known  statue  which  I  caricatured 
some  years  ago  when  it  appeared  in  the  Eoyal  Academy,  has 
told  me,  since  it  was  put  up  in  the  Metropolis,  that  he  has 
actually  meditated  replacing  it  by  another  piece,  owing  to  the 


rVv-2      ^  -^        f"  ^^.J-^'^    «V< 


'V^^^*-^ 

h 


^^ 


'if 


il^^  c 


<7> 


K, 


ludicrous  suggestion  affixed  to  it. 

On  the  other 
hand ,  the  carica- 
ture of  an  im- 
portant work  is 
sometimes  received 
in  the  proper  spirit. 
Here  is  a  letter 
from  Professor 
Herkomer,  with 
reference  to  my 
caricature  of  the 
Avork  of  our  greatest 
art  genius,  Alfred 
Gilbert,  R.A. : 

Of  course,  the 
caricaturing  of  pic- 
tures has  its  seamy 
as  well  as  its  smooth 
side.  Among  the 
annoyances  to 
which  an  artist 
engao-ed  on  this 
description  of 
work  is  exposed 
I   am   inclined   to 

give  a  prominent  place  to  the  fussy  and  vexatious  regulations 
imposed  upon  him  by  the  authorities  at  Burlington  House. 
One  would  have  supposed,  for  instance,  that  anyone  like  myself, 
who  is  well-known  as  merely  taking  notes  for  caricature,  would 
have  been  allowed  to  consult  his  own  convenience  to  some 
extent   in    making   his    sketches.     But   not  a  bit  of  it.     The 


294 


COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


penalty  is  sometliing  too  dreadful  if  you  ai'e  found  making  the 
slightest  note  of  a  picture  at  the  Royal  Academy  at  any  other 
time  than  on  the  one  appointed  day.  The  object  of  this 
regulation  is,  of  course,  to  protect  the  copyriglit  of  the  pictures — 
a  very  proper  and  legitimate  precaution  ;  but  I  submit  that  a 
better  instance  of  the  spirit  of  Red  Tapeism  which  is  so  rampant 
at  Burlington  House,  and  which  I  am  always  endeavouring  to 
expose,  could  not  be  adduced  than  the  inability  of  the  officials 
to  discriminate  between  the  accredited  representative  of  a  paper 
and  the  piratical  sketcher  who  is  taking  notes  for  an  illegitimate 
purpose.  I  need  hardly  say  that  this  regulation  is  peculiar  to 
the  Royal  Academy.  .Vt  the  Grosvenor 
Gallery,  which,  alas!  is  no  more,  the 
officials  about  the  place  understood  these 
matters  better,  and  at  all  times  were  pleased 
to  give  every  facility  to  the  representative 
of  the  Press.  Tlie  polite  secretary  would 
give  up  his  chair  to  me  any  day  I  liked  to 
look  in,  and  would  often  point  out  to  me 
some  comical  feature  in  the  surrounding 
canvases  which  his  sly  humour  had  detected. 
Equal  praise  must  indeed  be  accorded 
to  the  management  of  the  New  Gallery  and 
all  the  other  Exhibitions  with  which  I  have 
been  brought  in  contact  in  the  course  of  my  professional  duties. 
Personally,  as  I  have  always  made  my  notes  at  the  Royal 
Academy  on  the  authorised  occasion,  I  have  had  nothing  to  fear 
from  those  who  preside  there.  But  my  friend  Linley  Sambourne, 
who  wished  upon  one  occasion  to  caricature  a  picture  of  Burne- 
Jones'  for  a  political  cartoon  in  Punch  (of  course  altering  the 
figures  and  indeed  everything  else,  so  as  not  in  any  way  to 
trench  upon  the  great  artist's  copyright)  was  dogged  by  a 
detective,  arrested,  and  finally  thrown  into  the  darkest  dungeon 
beneath  the  Burlini^ton  House  moat  I  Protest  was  useless. 
What  liis  terror  must  have  Ijeen  my  pen  fails  to  describe. 
V'^isions  of  the  thumbscrew,  the  rack,  and  all  the  tortures 
eonceivaljle  ro.su  in  the  fertile  imagination  of  my  colleague,  and 


A   PRISONER. 


"PUXGHr  295 

beads  of  perspiration  made  their  appearance  upon  his  massive 
brow.  After  weary  hours,  when  lunch-time  without  the  lunch 
had  come  and  gone,  and  the  pangs  of  hunger  began  to  be  added 
to  his  other  miseries,  when  he  was  reflecting  that  his  week's 
work  for  Punch  was  yet  unfinished,  that  the  engravers  would  be 
in  despair  at  not  having  it  in  time,  and  that  at  that  moment  his 
editor  was  probably  telegraphing  to  him  all  over  London  and 
instituting  a  search  for  his  person  all  over  his  club,  suddenly  the 
bolts  of  his  prison-chamber  were  withdrawn  and  his  gaoler,  the 
blood-thirsty  tyrant  Red  Tape,  allowed  the  genial  artist  to  return 
to  the  bosom  of  his  wife  and  family — not,  however,  without 
leaving  a  hostage  behind  him.  The  sketch — the  guilty  sketch — 
the  cause  of  all  his  troubles,  was  detained.  In  vain  the  harassed 
artist  explained  to  his  grim  Cerberus  that  the  work  was  wanted 
for  the  next  week's  issue  of  Punch,  and  although  as  a  matter  of 
fact  it  duly  appeared  at  the  appointed  time,  Mr.  Sambourne  had 
to  trust  to  his  memory  instead  of  to  the  courtesy  and  common 
sense  of  Burlington  House  for  the  reproduction  of  his  skit. 

I  remember  another  incident  which  will  serve  to  illustrate  the 
tiials  and  misfortunes  of  the  caricaturist  when  pursuing  his 
vocation  outside  the  walls  of  his  studio.  It  was  the  opening- 
day  of  the  New  Gallery,  and  as  I  draw  my  sketches  of  the 
pictures  with  an  ordinary  pen  and  liquid  Indian  ink  direct,  and 
have  them  afterwards,  like  all  my  drawings,  photographed  on 
wood  and  engraved — of  late  years  they  are  reproduced  by 
process  engraving — I  was  holding  my  bottle  of  ink  and  my 
sketch-book  in  one  hand,  while  my  pen  was  busy  with  the  other. 
Upon  arriving  very  early  in  the  morning  I  thought  I  must  have 
made  a  mistake,  and  that  I  had  entered  a  manufactory  of  hats, 
for  the  hall  was  almost  entirely  taken  up  with  hat-boxes.  Upon 
enquiry,  however,  I  learned  that  these  merely  contained  the 
new  hats  in  which  the  directors  would,  hiter  on,  receive  their 
visitors.  When  the  hall  began  to  fill,  and  the  fashionable  crowd 
was  pouring  in,  I  was  standing  in  the  central  lobby,  sketching 
away  with  a  will,  when  my  friend  Sir  AYilliam  Agnew,  always 
early  to  arrive  on  such  occasions,  happened  to  come  up  and 
soon  interested  me  in  conversation  about  the  genius  of  Millais 


•296  COXFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

and  the  beauties  of  Burne-Jones.  In  my  energetic  manner  1 
was  debating  a  matter  of  some  little  interest  when  my  eye 
caught  that  of  Mr.  Comyns-Carr,  who,  with  his  newly-selected 
hat  on,  was  standing  close  by  and  regarding  me  with  an 
expression  of  indescribable  horror.  "  What  is  the  matter  with 
Carr  ?  "  I  observed  to  Agnew  ;  "  surely  Sargent  should  be  here 
and  hand  down  that  expression  to  posterity."  But  when  I 
followed  his  eyes  as  they  passed  sternly  from  mine  to  the  floor, 
my  hat  nearly  sprang  off  my  head  at  the  sight  which  I  beheld ! 
Forofettins:  that  I  held  the  bottle  of  ink  in  the  hand  with  which 
I  had  been  suiting  the  action  to  the  word  in  my  animated 
harangue  to  Sir  William,  I  had  splashed  the  virgin  marble  on 
which  we  were  standing  in  all  directions  with  hideous  stains  of 
the  blackest  of  liquids.  In  my  consternation  I  did  not  stay  to 
see  the  incongruous  figure  of  the  charwoman  and  bucket  who 
was  immediately  introduced  amid  the  elite  of  fashionable  London, 
but  fled  incontinently  from  the  gallery  and,  rushing  in  where 
angels  fear  to  tread,  sought  sanctuary  in  my  accustomed  haunt, 
the  Gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons.  There  at  least  I  thought 
I  should  be  safe.  Presently,  when  I  had  somewhat  recovered 
from  my  agitation,  I  was  making  my  way  out  of  the  House 
when  I  encountered  a  friend  in  the  Central  Lobby.  I  was 
explaining  to  him  the  unfortunate  coiitretenrps  which  had 
occurred  at  the  New  Gallery,  and  utterly  forgot  that  I  still  held 
the  bottle  of  ink  in  my  hand,  and  on  the  sacred  floor  we  stood 
upon  I  had  perpetrated  the  offence  again  ! 

My  only  consolation  for  this  chapter  of  accidents  was  that 
the  particular  ink  in  my  bottle  is  different  from  the  ordinary 
writing  fluid,  and  leaves  no  stain  behind  it.  It  is  in  fact  merely 
paint,  and  is  innocent  of  gall.  There  are  inks,  as  there  are 
other  forms  of  journalism,  whose  consequences  are  not  so  easily 
effaced  or  so  harmless ;  but  like  the  caricaturist's  work  itself,  the 
material  with  which  it  is  accomplished  often  looks  blacker  than 
it  really  is. 

Fortunately  all  this  happened  previous  to  the  introduction  of 
the  ink  1  use  now,  known  as  Waterproof  ink — ink  that  will  not 
r^iii  when  washed  over  with  water.     The  manufacturers  of  this 


w 

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O 

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''PUNCHr 


299 


article  sent  me  a  specimen  bottle  to  experiment  with,  and  asked 
me  for  my  opinion  of  it.  In  replying,  I  sent  the  following  note. 
The  sketch  was  touched  in  to  amnse  my  youngest  boy,  who  was 
puzzled  by  the  meaning  of  Waterproof  ink.  The  makers,  in 
acknowledging  the  note,  asked  me  to  mention  the  sum  I  would 
accept  if,  with  my  permission,  they  used  the  note  and  sketch  I 
sent  as  an  advertise- 
ment. I  replied  that 
they  were  welcome  to 
use  my  note,  but  that  I 
could  not  accept  pay- 
ment. However  I 
received  in  a  few  days 
a  large  parcel  of  artists' 
materials:  paints, 
sketch-books,  brushes, 
pencils,  &c. 

This  is  more  than  I 
ever  received  for  abetter 
known  advertisement : 
"  1  used  your  soap  two 
years  ago."  I  was 
never  oft'ered  so  much 
as  a  cake  of  soap  from 
those  who  used  my 
Punch  sketch  so  freely  ! 
Permission  was  given  for 
its  use  by  the  proprietors 
of  Punch,  not  knowing 
I  had  any  objection,  and 

at  the  time  I  was  ill  with  fever  and  unable  to  protest.  The  firm 
certainly  paid  me  some  years  afterwards  for  the  publication  of 
the  same  advertisement  for  two  insertions  in  a  periodical  I  was 
starting,  but  only  at  the  ordinary  rate.  I  mention  this  fact  as 
I  have  heard  from  friends  all  over  the  world  that  I  received 
untold  gold  for  the  use  of  it,  and  as  it  has  interested  so  many 
perhaps  I  may  at  the  same  time  clear  up  another  fallacy,  which 


300 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 


I  did  not  know  existed  until  I  read  Mr.  Spielmann's  "  History  of 
Punch."  Ill  that  he  refers  to  the  very  "oft-quoted  drawing 
(lately  used  as  an  advertisement),  the  idea  of  which  reached  him 
from  an  anonymous  correspondent.  It  is  that  of  a  grimy, 
unshaven,  unwashed,  mangy-looking  tramp,  who  sits  down  to 
waite,  with  a  broken  quill,  a  testimonial  for  a  firm  of  soap- 
makers.  A  further  point  of  interest  about  this  famous  sketch 
was  that  Charles  Keene  was  deeply  offended  by  it  at  first,  in 
the  groundless  belief  that  it  was  intended  as  a  skit  upon  him- 
self.    It  must  at  least  be  admitted  that  the  head  is  not  unlike 

what  one  misjht  have  ex- 
pected  to  belong  to  a  dis- 
sipated and  dilapidated 
Charles  Keene."  Poor 
Keene  !  How  sorry  I  was 
to  read  this  when  too  late 
to  explain  to  him  that  he 
was  never  in  my  mind  for 
a  moment  when  I  was 
drawing  it !  But,  strange 
to  say,  the  original  who  sat 
for  it  was  a  brother  artist, 
another  Charles,  quite  iis 
delightful  as  Keene, 
equally  clever  in  his  own 
way,  and  my  greatest  friend — Charles  Burton  Barber,  the  animal 
painter,  in  appearance  rather  like  Charles  Keene,  but  nothing  of 
the  Bohemian  about  him,  and  a  non-smoker !  Still  I  am  always 
being  told  that  I  had  So-and-so  in  my  eye  when  drawing  the 
figure.  I  might  in  truth  quote  Sir  John  Tenniel's  remark 
a  jyvopos  of  being  accused  of  caricaturing  his  late  comrade, 
Horace  Mayhew,  as  the  "White  Knight"  in  "Alice  in  Wonder- 
land" :  "The  resemblance  was  purely  accidental,  a  mere 
unintentional  caricature,  which  \\\&  friends,  of  course,  were  only 
too  delighted  to  make  the  most  of"  Ah,  those  friends  are  at 
the  bottom  of  all  tliese  misunderstandings.  I  could  a  tale,  or 
two,  unfold,  but  that — that's  another  ^'olume. 


I    SIT   FOR   JOHN   BROWN. 


''pu^^'ciir 


301 


Yes,  poor  Barber  sat  for  the  tramp,  and  I  in  return  sat  to 
him  for  a  figure  quite  as  incongruous  in  my  case  as  the  tramp 
was  in  his.  I  sat  for  John  Brown  for  the  picture  Queen  Victoria 
had  commissioned  of  Mr.  Brown  surrounded  by  her  pet  dogs, 
which  she  had  in  her  private  room.  She  was  so  delighted  with 
the  picture  that  she  had  a  repKca  made  of  it,  and  placed  it  in 
the  passage  outside,  so  that  it  was  the  first  picture  she  looked  at 
as  she  left  her  room.  Barber's  animals  and  children  were 
delightful,    but     he 

J  A  SOAP -CERTIFICATE. 


was  weak  with  his 
men,  and  was  in 
trouble  over  John 
Brown's  calves, — it 
was  then  that  I 
posed  for  the 
"brawny  Scott,"  but 
only  for  the  portion 
here  mentioned. 

This  figure  of  the 
tramp  in  my  sketch 
of  "  I  used  your 
soap  two  years  ago  " 
has  in  fact  been 
mistaken  for  myself. 
A  relative  of  my 
own,  who  has  been 
living   in  the  Cape 

for  many  years,  paid  a  visit  to  London,  and  on  his  return 
informed  his  children  that  he  had  seen  me  and  brought  my 
portrait  back  Avith  him.  "  Oh,  we  have  Cousin  Harry's  portrait 
in  our  nursery  for  some  time  :  one  he  has  signed  too."  It  was 
the  Punch-Pears  production  in  colour !  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know 
how  ridiculous  stories  are  received  as  true,  that  I  got  a  fabulous 
sum  for  the  use  of  this  one  ;  that  such-and-such  a  member  of 
the  staff  gets  a  huge  retaining  fee,  &c.,  and  other  inventions — one 
in  particular.  If  I  have  met  one,  I  have  met  a  score  of  people 
at  different  times  of  my  life  who  positively  declared  that  they 


THE  BEST  SOAP  MADE  is 

A   CIRIB   BY   AN  AMERICAN   ADVERTISER. 


302  CONFESSIOXS   OF  A    CARICATURIST. 

actually  sent  that  ever  famous  line  :  "  Punch's  advice  to  those 
about  to  many — Don't !  "  and  received  immediately  remunera- 
tion in  sums  varying  from  £b  to  <£500.  That  joke  was 
probably  conceived  and  thrown  in  at  the  last  moment,  at  the 
critical  point  when  the  editor  is  "  making  up  "  the  paper. 

As  I  am  writing  these  disjointed  notes  for  family  reading,  it 
may  perhaps  not  be  out  of  place  just  to  refer  to  the  domestic 
relations  of  the  staff  of  Punch.  Our  wives  and  families  were 
invited  to  meet  on  the  occasion  of  the  Lord  Mayor's  procession, 
when  they  may  have  been  observed  upon  the  roof  of  the 
publishing  office — till  recently  it  was  in  Fleet  Street — from 
which  coign  of  vantage  they  had  an  excellent  view  of  the  civic 
show,  afterwards  having  a  capital  lunch  in  a  room  on  the  first 
floor.  Yet  how  much  men  who  live  on  their  wits  owe  to  their 
domestic  happiness !  It  is  a  pleasant  fact  to  be  able  to  chronicle 
that — I  believe  at  all  times — the  domestic  lives  of  the  Punch 
staff  have  been  most  happy.  It  is  rather  curious  that  all  of  them 
have  made  the  same  kind  of  matrimonial  selection — they  have 
married  "  sensible  wives,"  women  who  have  all  been  sympathetic, 
devoted,  bright,  and  domesticated.  The  wit  at  the  dinner-table, 
the  humorous  writer  or  the  caricaturist  in  the  pages  you  read,  is  a 
very  different  dog  at  home.  It  must  naturally  be  so.  It  is  the 
reaction,  and  it  is  to  such  men  that  the  woman  poss(issed  of 
tact  and  cheerfulness  is  invaluable.  In  truth,  Punch's  advice 
to  those  about  to  marry,  "  Don't !  "  has  been  disregarded  by  the 
majority  of  his  members,  in  every  case  with  the  utmost  satisfaction 
to  themselves. 


liHADbrKV,    Afi.NliW,    &    CO.    LD.,    PUINTliUS,  LONDON    AND   TONBItlDOl-;. 


'47'? 

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